


take me home to the place

by storytellingape



Category: BlacKkKlansman (2018), Crash Pad (2017), Logan Lucky (2017), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy, The Kitchen (2019)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Childhood Friends, Growing Up Together, M/M, Military Backstory, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recreational Drug Use, Rimming, Slurs, Teenage Drama, Underage Drinking, Underage Smoking, suicide ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:20:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 52,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23587519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storytellingape/pseuds/storytellingape
Summary: Years later, Stensland comes back home to Boone County.
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Clyde Logan/Stensland (Crash Pad), Gabriel O'Malley/Flip Zimmerman
Comments: 44
Kudos: 202
Collections: Into the Adjacentverse: Kylux Adjacents Month 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A big thank you to [@StaticRaining](https://twitter.com/StaticRaining) who made this readable for everyone: sorry I put you through this! 
> 
> This is my ode to Clydeland and the Adjacent month! There are so many things referenced in this story lol I hope you have fun finding them. Inspired and dedicated to the following lovely people without whom this fic would not have materialized: [Techienician](https://twitter.com/Techienician), [heir_of_breath7](https://twitter.com/heir_of_breath7), & [SoftSolutionsTM](https://twitter.com/SoftSolutionsTM). Love you all! 
> 
> Please heed the tags! The first chapter is set in the past but nothing untoward happens: just teenagers being teenagers.
> 
> The premise of this story is that Flip and Gabriel are Stensland's parents so it's a merging of different universes and timelines. 
> 
> All mistakes are my own.
> 
> Also: I made a playlist on Spotify for this fic. You can listen to it [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/57ZHUmnnhycAFouFaJVg3x?si=XWEAoxXvQtONKz__2Pxfvg).
> 
> The lovely [katiesghosts](https://twitter.com/katiesghosts) made art for this fic! It's so wonderful, do check it out!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stensland refers to Gabriel as Papa and Flip as Dad, just to make the distinction clear. This part takes place throughout Clyde and Stensland's childhood.

* * *

Puberty hits Stensland the hardest because in addition to being a redhead, he also has terrible teeth and even worse acne. His parents get him braces and for two weeks straight he eats nothing but mashed potatoes and watery gravy. It’s a small town where everyone knows that his dad is a detective so they mostly leave him alone in school, but that doesn’t mean he can’t still feel like a pariah with his teeth covered in metal and his skin pockmarked.

He spends his lunch break holed up in the library, head in his arms, moaning about how his life sucks so much.

Clyde is a freshman so his classes are in a different building. He gets out twenty minutes before Stensland and waits for him by the front gates so they can bike home together. 

“It ain’t so bad, Stens. Mellie’s got braces,” Clyde reminds him when Stensland complains for the nth time about how hard he’s got it. Clyde hands Stensland his helmet after helping him unchain his bike. He’s got big hands and Stensland doesn’t know why he’s suddenly fixated on the fact. It’s as if over night, Clyde had grown up to be a different person: his shoulders have filled out, his face has more definition, even his teeth don’t seem so crooked anymore. Meanwhile Stensland has puberty to battle out: he can’t seem to gain any muscle or get on any sports teams in school. His dad often tells him these things take time, all good things do, but Stensland is thirteen now and girls still leave him well alone. 

“Mellie’s eight,” Stensland reminds Clyde, huffing. 

“Tell you what,” Clyde says, turning his bike around to get in Stensland’s way. 

Stensland raises his eyebrows at him. 

“How ‘bout I take you out for ice cream so you can forget all about your miserable day?” Clyde says.

“You took me for ice cream yesterday,” Stensland says. This is true: Clyde has been taking Stensland out for ice cream ever since he got braces. It’s supposed to help with the ache in his teeth and it’s one of few things Stensland actually enjoys eating: he loves sweets, he loves strawberries. The combination of both is like heaven in his mouth. 

Clyde offers him a lopsided smile, nudging the wheel of his bike against Stensland’s to jar him out of his thoughts. “Don’t know ‘bout you but I got a hankerin’ for one of those strawberry shortcake ice cream bars from Phil’s.”

Stensland rolls his eyes. He knows what Clyde is doing but he also knows fundamentally that he‘s weak to temptation. He adjusts the sling of his book bag before hooking his foot over the bike pedal. Then he grins at Clyde before wagging his eyebrows.  
  
“Race you there,” he says, whistling through his lisp, another one of those things that just make his life miserable.  
  
Then he’s off like a bullet, pedaling hard and dodging pedestrians and low-hanging branches. He hears Clyde huffing behind him, laughing as he tries to catch up. Stensland glances over his shoulder and glimpses Clyde with his face all red and his hair all wind-blown.

“Wait up!” Clyde calls after him, but Stensland doesn't slow down one bit. No one can stop him.

* * *

High school, Stensland is starting to learn, is a different world entirely. 

Everyone hates it, few survive it with their souls intact. Stensland has no social graces whatsoever, that much he knows, so to make friends he joins the drama club. It’s an outlet for all his energy because none of the sports clubs interest him; he has too little patience for the chess club and his spelling is atrocious so there won’t be any spelling bee trophies in his immediate future. He can debate anyone under the table so as long as it’s about pop culture and not about politics. The drama club is looking for at least a dozen members to keep it afloat; Stensland happens to be the lucky twelfth.

They do a production of _The Wizard of Oz_ before Thanksgiving. Stensland is a stagehand, having lost the part of the cowardly lion after he got stage fright one too many times. But it’s fine, he likes waiting in the wings anyway, helping build the set and tinkering with knobs and bobs in the lighting booth. 

Meanwhile, Clyde has joined the math club. He helps Stensland with his algebra from time to time because he’s actually good with numbers. Clyde got his driver’s license last summer so now he drives his dad’s beat up old Thunderbird to school and picks Stensland up after drama club to take him to their favourite diner down the road for burgers and fries. 

It’s October and the parking lot is full of kids from their school, seniors in their parents’ cars playing loud, foot-stomping music, laughing and drinking pop. Jimmy arrives with his football buddies, squeezing through the crowd and making his way to the cool people table: their table. He nods at Clyde and Stensland as he passes them. All of them are wearing their letterman jackets.

Stensland watches them longingly.

“I can’t believe you passed up on the opportunity to play football.” Stensland shakes his head, pointing a soggy ketchup-soaked fry at Clyde. “Think about how cool that would’ve been. Me, best friends with one of the popular guys in school. Girls would be all over us!”

Clyde blinks at him, something in his face shifting, though Stensland can’t tell what it is. “Is that all you think about, Stens?” he asks. “Girls?”

“I’m fifteen, Clyde,” Stensland tells him. “What else is there to think about?”

Clyde frowns into his burger before tossing it back onto his plate like he’s just lost his appetite. It’s Friday night; they’ve had a long week at school and though they’ve been friends for years sometimes they get on each other’s nerves. Stensland worries for a moment that he might have stepped on a landmine, but with Clyde, how can he know? 

Clyde never says what he means; he lets people walk all over him. Sometimes that means Stensland too. 

“I don’t know, Stens,” Clyde sighs. “It just seems pretty shallow to me.”

Stensland shrugs. “I just don’t want to die a virgin,” he says, trying to lighten the mood by bumping his foot against Clyde’s under the table and smiling. 

Clyde doesn’t return the gesture, which means he’s not in the mood to play this game with him. So Stensland has upset him. He doesn’t know how and why but lately that seems to be happening with increasing frequency. He was just making a joke. 

“You ain’t gonna die a virgin, Stens,” Clyde says, sounding tired, playing around with his food and not looking Stensland in the eye. Another bad sign.

“How would you know,” Stensland huffs. “You don’t look like me. I don’t have muscles like you; I wear braces, for God’s sake! I’m in the fucking drama club, Clyde! Which is almost as bad as if I were in the math club.”

Stensland is panting hard from his tirade. He can feel his face heat up from it, his jaw hurting from clenching it too hard, his eyes strangely wet. Luckily the diner is packed tonight; they don’t get any looks.

“You think being in the math club is bad?” Clyde asks after a pause, because of course that’s his main takeaway here.

“I just wanna be cool for once in my life, all right?” Stensland says, in little more than a whisper. He slumps in his seat, winded from having said all that. His body is practically thrumming with a delayed adrenaline rush, but he has no idea what to do with it.

Clyde stares at him for a long moment. Then he reaches for his wallet and throws a wad of bills on the table to pay for their food. He shrugs on his jacket without another word. It’s his math club jacket with the Pi symbol on the back, maroon and gold like their school colours. Stensland wants to say something mean about it but it’s too late: Clyde is already leaving.

“Hey! Where are you going?”

Clyde doesn’t even look at him. “I just need to get some fresh air. I’ll wait for you outside,” he says, then whispers something to the waitress, Marta, before pointing at Stensland and slipping out the door.

Stensland gapes at him like a fish. _What the fuck_ , he thinks. _What the fuck._

He eats his meal seething in silence, chewing slowly to savour every bite. Let Clyde act like a little kid and wait for him outside, he thinks. Stensland did nothing wrong; he shouldn’t be made to feel guilty. He doesn’t deserve to be walked out on. It’s just downright rude!

Then Stensland feels stupid immediately, sick to his stomach with regret and unable to finish his burger. He wipes his hands on a bunch of table napkins and then goes to look for Clyde in the parking lot. He’s not hard to find, considering how tall he is. He’s leaning against the side of his dad’s Thunderbird, hands in his pockets, looking up at the sky. He parked the car a little further down the lot, away from people because that’s just the kind of person he is: Clyde liked being alone. Sometimes Stensland wonders how they even got to be friends when Clyde seems to do pretty much fine on his own, never needing anyone, an island unto himself.  


Stensland jogs towards him, stopping abruptly when Clyde turns to look at him. “Ready to go home?” he asks, keys in hand already.

Stensland wants to say sorry but he’s his Papa’s son first and foremost and until he knows what he’s done wrong he’s not going to apologize. It’s just the principle of the thing, is what his Papa would say. So he lets the silence wrap around them like a thick, uncomfortable thing, like a noose choking them both, until finally, Clyde just turns on the engine and waits for him to get in the car.

Stensland stands there next to the driver’s side of the car for a long time; then he gets in.

* * *

The play is a smashing success if you count the number of people who come to watch it and multiply it by three. Of course, Stensland’s parents are there to show their support even though Stensland is mostly backstage wearing black leotards and a skin-tight shirt that chafes his nipples when he so much as lifts his arms. He enjoys it though, the hushed silence that falls over the crowd before the curtain is drawn; the confused smiles on everyone’s faces when they realize this is not the story they grew up with but a contemporary version of The Wizard of Oz with Dorothy as a young chain-smoking punk in the 60’s who takes too much LSD.

Clyde of course is in the audience, having slipped in after the second act and taken a seat at the very back where no one will bother him. After curtain call, Stensland’s parents take a picture with him near the stage. They’re embarrassing as usual, fussing over Stensland and telling him they’re proud of him, so he shoos them away and tells them he’ll see them at home. 

Stensland has been invited to the cast party, the first party he’ll ever be participating in that doesn’t require a chaperone. Middle school dances don’t count. The girl playing Dorothy, a sophomore named Jenny, has invited everyone to her house, passing around slips of paper with her address on it. She lives just outside of town, in a neighborhood with immaculately trimmed lawns and long sloping driveways. 

Jenny has lenient parents who are always on some business trip or another. here’s supposed to be alcohol at the party, according to some local chatter. Stensland has only had a few sips of gin whenever he manages to break the lock on his Papa’s liquor cabinet. The locks change as often as Stensland learns how to pick them. His Papa showed him a trick once, when he was eleven; he’s probably still regretting it. Stensland can pick locks like no one’s business though he only uses it for good. Most of the time. 

“Stensland!” Clyde says, accosting Stensland who’s just about to change out of his leotard ensemble on his way to backstage. Stensland feels like a lizard in it, skinny and lanky with limbs he doesn’t know what to do with. Completely clumsy and uncoordinated. A change of clothes will never diminish that feeling but he’s hoping to show up at the party with a semblance of cool. There will be girls after all. And music. Not that he knows what to do with the information but girls and music are the only two things high school boys should care about other than acne and it’s high time Stensland gets with the program.

“Clyde!” Stensland throws his arms around Clyde to hug him tight.

Clyde squeezes back, pulling away to look at him with a slight blush, probably because Stensland stinks in his leotards, having run around backstage all night doing this and that. Being a stagehand is no joke; Stensland may not have to look pretty all the time or be caked in makeup like the cast, but he’s got his work cut out for him. There are only two other stagehands and one of them had called in sick with the mumps.

“Great play,” Clyde says as he releases Stensland from his embrace. “Bit different from what I was expecting though. But… very refreshing.”

Stensland grins. He knows Clyde is just being kind so he laughs before shoving him playfully. “You don’t have to lie to me Clyde Logan. I know it was shite.”

Clyde just shrugs. “It was different. Sometimes different is good.”

“Yeah, well,” Stensland mumbles, because that’s what his dad often says when Stensland complains about being the only redhead in school. He doesn’t believe it one bit because sometimes it’s easier to believe the bad over the good, just because it feels like the truth.

“A few friends and I are going to this party later,” Stensland says after a few minutes of the two of them just standing there and making smalltalk. “Do you wanna come with?”

Clyde is hesitating. Stensland can see it in his very stance. He’s easy to read, probably because Stensland has known him for years. There are people at school who are afraid of Clyde because he’s big for his age and quietly menacing. Most people don’t know that he wouldn’t hurt a fly. That’s part of the reason why Stensland never got bullied: his dad is a well-known detective and he’s best friends with Clyde, who just happens to be the quarterback’s little brother. He’s untouchable. 

“Please?” Stensland bats his eyes. “Please, please, please? I need a ride,” he begs, touching Clyde on the arm imploringly before squeezing.

He looks at Clyde for the first time, really looks at him in his jeans and flannel shirt and the faded _Rolling Stones_ t-shirt that his dad got for him last Christmas. Stensland often jokes that he dresses like a forty-year old man in the middle of a divorce but tonight Clyde has actually ditched the belt and khakis. 

Tonight he looks good. 

“Please?” he says one more time and Clyde sighs before shaking his head. Stensland knows he’s got him, because he gets Clyde every time.

* * *

The party is in full swing when Stensland steps inside, the packed heat of the living room hitting him like a punch in the face. He’s never been to a party before but that’s because he’s just a nobody, not even wildly unpopular so much as he didn’t exist until freshman year when he joined the drama club. 

Stensland can’t dance, can’t flirt; he can barely talk to a girl unless they’re asking him for directions. What he’s good at though is beating everyone’s score at Donkey Kong at the arcade and doing handstands until he’s feeling woozy and slightly sick to his stomach. 

Clyde nudges him on the shoulder. He’s draped his flannel shirt over one arm so that he’s just wearing his _Rolling Stones_ shirt, which is a faded grey and outlines the muscles Stensland wishes he had, a result of his late afternoon runs. He used to run track but he didn’t like competing so he quit halfway into the school year, much to the disappointment of his dad who is a big sports nut, the complete opposite of Stensland’s dad who just pretty much encourages whatever he’s into at any given time: like being part of the official Dawson’s Creek Mailing List.

Stensland sees the looks Clyde is oblivious to, the girls that smile and wave at him and giggle. No one ever smiles and waves at Stensland, and the only giggles he gets are those of amusement or contempt.

Stensland follows Jenny, whose house this is, to the kitchen, which is always one of the centers of activity at parties like this because it’s where the alcohol is.

“Ah, this is good stuff,” Stensland says with a sigh when they’re handed a plastic cup full of something that looks like fruit punch. 

As promised, the house is unsupervised which means the music is loud and awful and property damage is imminent. Stensland feels a bit nervous, hot and cold all over because he hasn’t called his parents since leaving the school theatre. He worries they’d come knocking at Jenny’s door any second and embarrass him. He considers looking for a phone but then decides against it because he’s not a little kid anymore; he can do this: he can drink and be stupid because he’s young and it’s a rite of a passage. 

Stensland winces when the punch goes down with a burn. He turns stinging eyes to Clyde who’s barely touching his drink, swirling the contents of his cup around before taking the tiniest sip and making a disgusted face.

“What do you think?” Stensland asks, still making exaggerated gagging noises. 

Clyde shrugs, shaking his head slowly. “Bit too sweet for me. Had some stronger stuff before.”  
  
He drains his cup in the sink before dunking it in the trash. 

Stensland laughs, watching Clylde move around the kitchen. Clyde is easily his favourite person in the world. One because he makes him laugh like no other. And two because he can’t imagine life without him. Life is easier with him here, and when he leaves, and he will, they’re just high school kids in a small town after all, well, Stensland prefers not to think about that eventuality.

So he grins instead. “My parents have better shite than this. What’s in this? Lighter fluid?”

Clyde just shrugs again.

The crowd has evaporated from the living room, leaving only a smattering of couples swaying and making out. The trick at parties like this one is to not get caught by anybody you don’t want to be caught by, to keep moving and dodging shrapnel, using your drink as a shield. There’s an idea for a video game, if anyone needs one: a little digital party kid ducking and weaving. Sometimes Stensland amazes himself with his own brilliance.

One of the girls whose face Stensland recognizes because they’re in the same Spanish class, touches Clyde’s arm, pretending to feel the material of his shirt. It’a ruse to get to touch him, her hand sliding over his bicep and curling around his elbow.

Clyde is too polite to tell her to fuck off even though he’s clearly uncomfortable having this complete stranger—no matter how pretty— touch him without warning. She’s going to get away with it because she’s popular and _a girl_ and she can touch guys like Clyde and it doesn’t have to mean anything. If Stensland touched Clyde like she’s touching him now, it would raise some eyebrows. Though they have yet to reach that stage, thankfully, touching each other without prompting. They used to hug each other for comfort, but they stopped doing that shortly after Clyde had his growth spurt. It started getting weird and by then Stensland had been too shy to initiate it, afraid that anything beyond holding hands would seem wrong and tainted.

“Aren’t you Jimmy Logan’s little brother?”

She’s already three sheets to the wind, giggling though nothing is remotely funny. “Clyde, right? Why, you’re just so gosh darn cute! I’ve always thought you were cute, you know. I’m Evelyn. I’m friends with your brother.” 

She holds out her hand to shake. It’s almost October but Evelyn’s wearing a sparkling silver tank top that gleams like a disco ball and almost makes Stensland go cross-eyed.

“Hi,” Stensland says after blinking for a good few seconds. He takes the proffered hand which is soft just as expected. It’s what Stensland likes about girls: they always seem to be made of soft edges.

“Hello,” Clyde echoes shyly because he still gets tongue-tied around girls even when it’s painfully clear that they want him. Stensland rolls his eyes, nudging Clyde in the side with his elbow. Clyde nudges back before pivoting his gaze back to Evelyn who asks them if they’re going to be at the homecoming game next week. Of course they are: there’s nothing better to do.

Stensland is quickly learning that high school is just a series of milestones, one after another: if it’s not this boring house party, then there’s the homecoming game, then after that the annual Christmas pageant, then after that the spring dance, so on and so forth. 

He thinks about his dad sometimes and how he can bear getting stuck here in Boone County where nothing ever happens and everything stays the same. It breaks his heart to think of his parents still living in the same house until they get old , where the roof sometimes leaks and the garage door has trouble opening. He doesn’t want that kind of life. He’d rather die first.

Stensland leaves Clyde in Evelyn’s company and wends his way back to the kitchen to refill his drink. Phillip, a guy from his workshop class, is hanging by the cooler, smoking up a rolled-up cigarette that is probably not a cigarette, judging by the smell. He nods in recognition as Stensland scoops some ice out of the cooler, then takes Stensland’s cup from him and takes a long sip out of it, winking and grinning when Stensland stares at him and gapes.

Phillip is a really cool guy and he’s always doing stuff like that— acting a bit like an asshole and then smiling so people won’t get mad, laying on the charm. Stensland will never be able to pull that off, not in a million years. There are people who grow up to become geniuses in their field or who are born into rich families or have great genes and look beautiful for the rest of their lives. There are people like Phillip who don’t even have to try very hard and then there are people like Stensland who are the terminal cases with nothing promising for them in the cards.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” Stensland says nervously, eyeing Phillip’s hand.  
  
He makes everything look effortless- It’s like watching a movie star. All Phillip needs are French subtitles. 

“I don’t smoke,” Philip says, taking a deep drag of his cigarette and then blowing smoke up the ceiling. “These aren’t cigarettes.”

He gives Stensland a meaningful look.

“Here, let me--” Phillip says and steps closer. He smells like booze. Stensland looks at the joint and then at Phillip before swallowing.

“Am I gonna be responsible for corrupting the good detective’s son?” Phillip grins. 

Stensland’s entire face goes hot. “ _Shut up._ This isn’t my first time.”

“This isn’t your first time,” Phillip repeats slowly, giving him the world’s most disbelieving look. “Well, all right then. But I don’t want your family knocking down my door, screaming about how I besmirched their sweet, innocent son’s virtue.” 

“Can you stop talking for a second?” Stensland snaps. He grabs the proffered joint and just inhales. 

Phillip must have left some tobacco in it because it hits hard, going straight to his head and pulling him higher once the weed kicks in. He takes several more hits, taking them one after another and Phillip watches him the entire time, his smirk growing exponentially.

“How is it, Mr. It’s-not-my-first time?” Phillip asks.

Stensland is too busy hacking up a lung to respond. He waves his hand at Phillip, the universal sign for _I’m all right._ Phillip pats him companionably on the back.

“Great,” Stensland manages to choke out.

Phillip laughs and Stensland finds himself laughing too. They pass the joint back and forth until the high moves from Stensland’s brain down to the rest of his body and he feels suddenly hyper-aware of every inch of it, his fingertips, his toes, the ends of his hair. It occurs to him that this feeling must be what police officers speak about when they warn them against drugs because Stensland feels invincible right now and though it’s probably only fleeting, it doesn’t seem like it, in this very moment, standing in this cramped kitchen making dirty jokes with the coolest guy in Boone County. 

When Clyde finds him half an hour later, frowning and looking Phillip up and down suspiciously, he reminds Stensland of his dad and Stensland says as much.

“What?” Clyde says.

“I said don’t be a party pooper! You’re like my dad, sometimes, honestly,” Stensland huffs. “You should be best friends!”

Clyde looks at him and something about the set of his jaw makes Stensland’s chest feel suddenly tight. “I was just wonderin’ where you’d gone,” Clyde says, before moving closer and giving Stensland’s hair a sniff. “Are you high right now?”

“Am I?” Stensland looks at Phillip for confirmation. Phillip snickers before bursting out laughing, slapping his knee and taking another puff of his joint.

“I think I might be?” Stensland says.

“I’m taking you home before you get into more trouble.” Clyde steers him out of the kitchen before Stensland can wave Phillip goodbye. Clyde is dragging him down the street where he’s parked the car, past throngs of people huddled together in dark corners, past familiar faces passed out on the front lawn. It’s any wonder why no one has called the cops. Stensland’s dad would have a heart attack.

“I don’t like that Phillip Altman,” Clyde says once he’s fixed Stensland’s seat belt, as if Stensland is some little kid that needed help in the first place. “He’s bad news, Stens.”

Stensland rolls the window down and licks at the night air. It’s a fifteen minute drive to their neighborhood, which means he’ll have to endure more of this. He glances at Clyde who’s driving with his jaw all set, his eyes fixed straight ahead on the dark of the road. The dashboard rattles with loose coins and an old red die from a board game they used to play as kids. Stensland picks it up and feels the heft of it between his fingers, turning it this way and that before pressing his thumbnail into the hard plastic.

“We were just having a good time, _dad,”_ Stensland says and he doesn’t want to sound mean, but he’s lost his filter half an hour ago and he feels tired all of a sudden. “Stop treating me like I’m not capable of making my own decisions; we can’t always be attached at the hip! I got high. So what? You’re gonna tell on me?”

Clyde’s grip on the steering wheel tightens but Stensland says nothing. There, he’s said it, too late to take the words back now. Eventually the silence gets so uncomfortable that Stensland has to turn the radio on, just so he has something other than Clyde’s disappointed sighing to listen to.

Stensland crosses his arms and keeps his gaze out of the window. Row after row of houses flicker by like images on a zoetrope. The summer Clyde learned how to drive, he took Stensland to an auto show in Charleston where they spent half the day ogling expensive cars and wondering how much money they’d cost. An hour’s drive from Boone County and the sky had been a seamless blinding blue, Stensland remembers. Clyde’s mom had packed them corn beef sandwiches, which they ate on the side of the road with lemon-flavored Snapple, the windows pulled down to highway dust, an impromptu picnic that almost got Stensland stung by wasps.

Now, all of Boone County is asleep, the sky a dark wash of milky shadows. The song on the radio drifts to a close, something about a girl named Ruby Tuesday. Clyde drops him off at his house and almost as soon as he kills the engine, the light on the front porch comes on. Stensland can already tell it’s his dad waiting for him in the living room. He doesn’t even know what time it is. He checks the clock on the dashboard. Almost midnight. _Shit_.

Clyde meets his eyes before unclipping his seat belt. “Well?” he prompts.

“My dad’s gonna kill me,” Stensland groans, scrubbing at his face furiously. “He’s going to kill me then he’s going to ground me for the rest of my life. I’ll be sixty before he lets me out of the house!”

Clyde shrugs one shoulder, before rummaging through the glove compartment and pulling out a bottle of hand sanitizer and a packet of wet wipes. Stensland isn’t going to ask, but then he has other things to worry about, namely his life.

“What’s this?” Stensland asks when Clyde tosses the bottle of sanitizer at him.

“Might help with the smell. Come on, you better hurry,” Clyde says, glancing nervously at him and then the driveway when Stensland continues to sit there and do nothing. “Quick, before your dad comes over. He might start wonderin’ what’s taking us so long.”

Sometimes Stensland forgets Clyde is more terrified of his parents than Stensland is of them.

Stensland grabs a handful of wet wipes and starts frantically scrubbing his person: at his neck, his face, his arms. He pours a sizable amount of sanitizer gel onto both palms, rubbing them together before patting some of it into his hair. It stings a little but he counts that as a good sign, a purging of past activities. He can only hope it masks the scent of booze and weed. Otherwise his dad will probably throw him into a holding cell and take away dessert privileges.

“Better now?” he asks Clyde.  
  
He can see the shadowy outline of both of his parents, his dad with his hands on his hips standing on the front porch, his Papa seated on the wicker chair with his posture entirely at ease, the complete opposite of Stensland’s dad.

Clyde touches Stensland’s arm and leans towards him, the motion startling Stensland enough to look into his face. Clyde smells like the awful fruit punch they drank earlier in the night, but underneath that is the mineral scent of him, overlaid with clean sweat and his favourite brand of hair gel.

Clyde sniffs at Stensland’s neck. He flicks his gaze up at Stensland and something moves through Stensland but he doesn’t know what. 

Clyde pulls away, and looks a little sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, I guess it’s as good as it’s ever gonna get, I think. Let’s just hope your dad ain’t as good a detective as he says he is.”

“ _Jesus_ ,” Stensland mutters, clenching his eyes shut and silently saying a prayer. He’s dead meat. “It was nice knowing you, Clyde. You’ve been a great pal! Thanks for everything. I’ll leave Rex in your care.” Rex is Stensland’s two-year old overweight hamster that his Papa had won at a county fair. 

Stensland gives Clyde a wry, two-fingered salute when he notices the shimmery pink smudge on Clyde’s cheek. “You’ve got something on your face,” he says, and then it hits him like a freight train. “Is that lipstick?”

Clyde frowns and is quick to rub it off with the back of his hand “That girl Evelyn, she was being real chummy. Sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” Stensland wonders. “At least one of us got lucky tonight.” He offers Clyde a twitchy smile that Clyde doesn’t return. 

After much dillydallying, Clyde finally walks him up the driveway. Their shoulders brush with every step. Stensland keeps swallowing out of nervousness. And dread.

“Please don’t tell my parents about the uh,—smoking tonight,” he begs under his breath, his anxiety mounting the closerthey get to his front porch. “If they ask, just make something up, all right? My arse is on the line. You know how my dad gets sometimes. He wants me to be some sort of sexless saint.”

Clyde narrows his eyes at him speculatively. They’ve been friends for years, that much is true. He and Clyde have gotten along from the very first minute they met, and Stensland can’t count the number of times Clyde has gotten him out of trouble, literally and figuratively, but he’s never asked him to lie for him. He never had to before. 

This is a test of friendship, Stensland knows. The first and probably the last.

“Evenin’ Detective Zimmerman,” Clyde calls out to Stensland’s dad as soon as they’re within earshot.

Stensland takes pride in the fact that Clyde doesn’t even bat an eyelash. Years of being friends with Stensland and Clyde is already learning grace under parental pressure. There may be a delinquent in him yet.

“I thought you said you would be right home after the play,” Stensland’s Papa says, coming to stand next to his dad, mirroring his stance. “Where were you all night? You have any idea what time it is?”

“Midnight?” Stensland guesses.

“That’s a rhetorical question,” his Papa snaps. He motions for Stensland to get on the porch.

Stensland stays put but then wilts under the intensity of their combined gaze.

“You boys made sure to stay out of trouble tonight?” Stensland’s dad is using his _detective voice_ which he had only used twice; once when asking about the switchblade in Papa’s desk drawer and then again when he inquired about his whereabouts after he’d returned from an unprompted business trip out of state.

“You boys been drinking?”

_“Dad.”_

_“_ It was my idea Detective Zimmerman, sir,” Clyde interrupts. “Thought it’d be fun to head down to a friend’s house after the play. Stensland here didn’t want to go at first but I managed to convince him. It was _my_ fault. Should’ve brought him straight home like he asked.”

Stensland’s Papa doesn’t take his eyes off Stensland’s face. He can smell bullshit from a mile away. He has a plethora of other skills, like swiping Stensland’s dad’s credit card without him knowing and throwing knives in the air so flawlessly that Stensland has no doubt he has great eye-hand coordination, but when it comes to Stensland himself, he has an almost preternatural sense of Stensland’s predilections. Therefore he knows when Stensland is lying or keeping something from his parents. 

“Is that right, Stensland?” he asks, like he’s daring Stensland to lie. 

Stensland stands there frozen and tongue-tied.

“I’m sorry, Mr O’Malley, sir,” Clyde says when the silence drags on. It’s the final nail in the coffin and Stensland wishes for the ground to open up and swallow him whole. 

His dad shakes his head in disappointment, eyeing the both of them up and down before disappearing wordlessly through the front door. He’s never raised his voice at Stensland, not even when he’d clogged the kitchen sink with toilet paper when he was twelve or flushed his goldfish down the toilet in hopes of setting it free.

Stensland has never really been able to piss him off because he’s the most patient man in the world as far as he’s concerned but nothing hurts more than his quiet resignation. It makes him almost regret ever going to the party tonight. Stensland is ashamed of himself, even more so when he looks to his Papa for sympathy and he gets nothing in return, just this tired, expressionless gaze. 

“We’ll see you around, Clyde,” his Papa says before motioning for Stensland to follow him inside.

Stensland gives Clyde an apologetic look over his shoulder, then he says good night.

* * *

The only good thing about being grounded indefinitely is the fact that Stensland gets to spend copious amounts of time watching television. In the meantime his Game Boy is confiscated until he earns his parents’ trust again. They have a routine they often stick to when it comes to matters concerning him: Papa plays the part of bad cop, while his dad is the good cop because he’s a secret softie who’s quick to forgive. This time however they’re presenting a united front: there’s nothing in Stensland’s foreseeable future but a never ending list of chores.

His dad asks him to help out in the garage after the fifth and final time Stensland complains about being bored out of his mind. There’s an old car he’s working on that Stensland’s Papa isn’t supposed to know about: a filthy purple Beetle with missing headlights that he bought for chump change off Uncle Ron who is, in Stensland’s opinion, the coolest adult he’s ever met.

Parked in a place of honor under the flickering work light is Stensland’s dad Beetle, surrounded by tools and equipment and shelves of things that Stensland hardly remembers the names of: old lunch boxes filled with spark plugs and dusty hubcaps, a neat set of wrenches arranged by size on the wall where his dad keeps a fraying poster of a cherry-red Ferrari.

Clyde’s dad used to be a mechanic for race car drivers back in the day, which is part of the reason Stensland’s dad has developed a sudden interest in cars. It’s all they talk about during barbecues: Mr Logan’s a big Dale Earnhardt fan.

Stensland finds his dad is sprawled underneath the Beetle, with only his legs visible, humming along to whatever song is playing on the radio in the background, something familiar but too soft to name.  
  
Stensland touches the toe of his shoe to his dad’s ankle. He hears a thud as his dad jerks up in surprise and hits his head.

_“Fuck!”_

His dad wheels out from underneath the car, his face murderous though his expression softens changes significantly when he sees Stensland squatting next to him.

“Finally decided to lend your old man a hand?”

Stensland shrugs. “Papa said I might as well make myself useful. He also says you forgot to take out the trash again last night and that I should tell you that.”

His dad huffs in amusement, shaking his head. “Right, well,” he says, before hoisting himself up on Stensland’s shoulder and straightening up to his full height. He tosses a dirty rag on his work bench before gesturing at the car.

“What do you think?” he asks, shoving his hands into his pockets. There’s a red bump on his forehead where he hit his head, sure to bruise the next day, but he doesn’t touch it or seem to notice.

Stensland turns to assess the car. His dad often got really sensitive about things so he had to be careful about what he said next. 

“It’s all right,” he says vaguely, touching the side of the Beetle where some of the paint had come off. His fingers leave pale streaks in the grime so he wipes them on the hem of his shirt, grimacing. 

“Yeah.” His dad grins. “It’s gorgeous isn’t it?” He pats the dirty metal affectionately. “Bertha here is fantastic. I love her already.” 

“Bertha?”

His dad nods. “All cars have names, Stensland. Like ships.”

“I didn’t know ships have names.”

“They do,” his dad says authoritatively. “It’s tradition. It’s supposed to be good luck.”

“Bertha,” Stensland repeats, humming thoughtfully, mumbling the name under his breath over and over again till it feels right. At least it’s not Steve, he thinks. Steve is an awful name for a car, a stuffy old accountant’s name. 

“Bertha,” his dad says again. “A nice, solid name.” He laughs when Stensland just shakes his head at him. 

Then Papa bangs on the screen door, poking his head out and rapping his knuckles on the wall to get their attention. 

“Hey, station’s calling for you,” he tells Stensland’s dad who gives Stensland a mock-terrified look before ruffling his hair and leaving to take the call. 

When he’s finally alone, Stensland sighs and looks around the garage, kicking at the tools his dad has left lying on the ground. Cars have never interested him though he longs to learn how to drive someday. It’s his ticket out of here; his dad can’t keep dropping him off in the squad car forever.

“Hey Stensland!”

Jimmy’s souped-up flashy sports car pulls to a stop in front of the driveway. A second later, the window to the driver’s seat rolls down and Jimmy waves at him, all teeth. Patches of his face are freshly tanned because of the amount of time he’s been spending at football practice.

“How’s life been treatin’ you?” Jimmy asks, meaning the whole being grounded situation. The really cool thing about him, besides the fact that he’s funny and that he seems to legitimately care about his family, is that he never makes Stensland feel like anything he says is stupid.

Stensland shrugs. “Been better.”

Jimmy laughs, just as Clyde clambers out of the passenger seat and starts trotting up Stensland’s driveway dejectedly.

“I’ll pick you up at five, don’t forget,” Stensland overhears Jimmy saying before he’s waving goodbye and zipping down the street in a blaze of car exhaust. He honks the horn five times. He shouldn’t be driving over the speed limit, Stensland thinks. But that’s Jimmy for you, always thinking he’s exempt from the rules. He’s the star of the high school football team, the favourite son. Jimmy’s going out with the most beautiful girl in school, Bobbie Jo, who just happens to be the principal’s daughter and who bears an uncanny resemblance to Joey Potter from Dawson’s Creek, Stensland thinks. 

“What’s that all about?” Stensland asks as Clyde sits down on the porch.

Stensland sits two steps in front of him, leaning back to put his elbows on the same step as Clyde’s feet. Clyde hunches forward and sets his elbows on his knees. He looks out onto the road, thoughts in the distance, mouth set in a grim line.

“Jimmy wants me at this party,” Clyde mumbles, looking more serious than usual, lines creasing deepening his forehead. Stensland keeps telling him to stop frowning but he never listens, does he, the stubborn fucking bastard. One day his face will be full of premature wrinkles and then whose fault will it be?

“Look at you,” Stensland says, absently teasing. “Getting invited to parties and all that. Meanwhile I’m a prisoner in my own home . ”

“I can bring you something,” Clyde offers, “from the party.”

“What am I, twelve?” Stensland scratches at the bruise on his left knee. There’s a tic-tac-toe board of red scrapes on the right where he’d caught his weight falling off his bike a few days ago.

“Get out there and have fun,” he says, rolling his eyes and flailing with his arms to emphasize his point. “You deserve it. You’ve been good!” Comparatively, Clyde is an angel. He gets good grades, he’s never gotten into real trouble and he always remembers to carry the ones in Calculus.

Clyde lets out a miserable sigh. “Doubt it’s gonna be fun anyway. It’ll just be Jimmy’s friends there. Wouldn’t know anybody.”

“Will there be booze?”

Clyde gives him a mystified look. “Course there’ll be booze. It’s a house party, Stens.”

Stensland whistles.  
  
“And girls?” he asks.

“Evelyn.” Clyde shrugs, palpable dread weighing down his shoulders. His hair is longer now, hiding his big ears which Stensland used to tug at and pinch when they were little boys wrestling in the leaves. It suits him though he keeps running his fingers through it when he’s anxious or stressed. 

“She’s been actin’ real friendly-like lately.”

“Is that right.” Stensland hums in thought. But he knows what Clyde means even without asking. Evelyn’s a pretty girl. She’s friendly, sure, but Stensland has seen the way she looks at Clyde when she passes him by in the hall. There’s something in it, a meaningful weight. He tries imagining them together, holding hands and eating together at the lunch table at school, going to all the dances. Then he imagines Clyde kissing her and his stomach pinches up. 

“Just don’t wear your button up shirt,” Stensland says, patting Clyde on the knee. 

“What’s wrong with my button up shirt?” Clyde asks, sounding so defensive it’s almost endearing.

Stensland laughs and squeezes his knee. “I’m kidding,” he says, though he’s really not.

Clyde has known him long enough to see through his lies but he says nothing and just looks sulkily at the ground.

“You’ll be fine,” Stensland promises, just to get him to stop pouting. “Knock ‘em out, kid.”

* * *

The nights are beginning to get chillier and chillier. It takes a while for Stensland to get warm enough to drift off to sleep now, so he puts his headphones on in bed and listens to the songs he’s taped from the radio, stupid pop songs he secretly likes that he’s too embarrassed to let anyone know about. He’s half asleep when the window is being pushed open and Clyde is suddenly squeezing through the tiny opening to hoist his leg over the ledge. Stensland is too busy having a heart attack to remember how to breathe. He watches Clyde pull himself into the room and knock a few of his things around in the process, like Stensland’s Optimus Prime action figure and a flashlight that rolls under the bed to never be seen again. 

“What the hell?” Stensland hisses in the dark.

“Sorry,” Clyde says, mumbling. “Sorry— I—” He slumps facedown onto the bed, his considerable weight denting Stensland’s second hand mattress. Stensland can smell booze on him. He reeks of it. That and something else. It takes Stensland only a second to identify what that something is and then he smirks at Clyde, both shocked and impressed. 

Clyde’s feet are dangling off the bed. He forgot to take his shoes off so Stensland does it for him before rolling Clyde onto his back so he’s more or less comfortable. Clyde is several weight classes above him but Stensland manages it just the same. Afterwards, he pushes the hair out of Clyde’s face; it’s sticky in places with hair gel. He needs a haircut soon, but then again so does Stensland. 

“Hey,” Stensland says, poking him in the shoulder when Clyde starts to snore.

Clyde mutters something under his breath before snorting awake, his body jerking back to life. “Huh—what?”

Stensland catches himself thinking Clyde has long eyelashes for a boy and then he shakes himself out of it and pokes Clyde again before he falls back asleep.

“I think I drank too much,” Clyde confesses, as if it’s not already apparent.

Stensland huffs and sits with his legs crossed. “Yeah, I can see that,” he says. “How much did you have?”

Clyde counts on his fingers, making it to three before letting out a frustrated groan. “Jimmy,” is all he says, and that’s all the explanation Stensland needs. Jimmy has a way of making people do things they wouldn’t normally do like shoplift a pack of gum or streak naked down the street in exchange for five dollars and Mrs Mellow shaking her head at you all year round at Sunday service. 

Stensland sighs and watches Clyde breathe for a while, a steady in and out that’s almost hypnotic.

“Think maybe I shouldn’t be here,” Clyde says after a moment. He seems nervous.

“Why not,” Stensland says, though he fails to ask what Clyde means. _Here in his room at the dead of night_ , or _here in Stensland’s bed?_ It’s late; Stensland’s parents sleep like the dead, so he’s not really worried about getting caught. 

All day he’d been wondering about Clyde anyway, wishing wherever he was Stensland was too. It almost seems absurd that he’d been out there, Good Boy God-fearing Clyde with the aw-shucks haircut and the button up shirt, partying and getting drunk, getting the full high school experience while Stensland was stuck here, staring at his ceiling pretending he couldn’t hear his parents having sex in the next room.

“Stensland,” Clyde says. “I’m gonna tell you somethin’ but promise me you won’t get mad.”

“Why would I get mad?”

“You have to promise me.”

Stensland blinks. This must be important; he doesn’t know why but his heart starts beating fast. “All right,” he agrees. “I promise.”

Clyde rolls onto his side. “Had my first kiss today,” he says. 

“What,” Stensland huffs, not quite believing it. “With Evelyn?”

Clyde nods. He doesn’t seem all that pleased by it, though he keeps touching his lips and smacking them together absently. Maybe he is _that_ drunk after all. 

“Was it any good?”

“Dunno. Don’t have nothin’ to compare it to.”

“Right,” Stensland says, because of course, why did he even bother to ask. He swallows, staring at the ceiling and then curling his hands into fists before relaxing them on his knees. For a split second he feels overwhelmed, then infuriated. He ought to feel betrayed but that seems like an overreaction considering Clyde is his own person. They’re just friends, Stensland hasn’t got any claim on him. Then there’s something else that feels like defeat but he doesn’t know if he’s ready to think about it quite yet.

He glances down when Clyde touches his leg. “Sorry I didn’t bring you anything from the party. The food sucked.”

“I wasn’t expecting a goodie bag anyway,” Stensland tells him.

Clyde smiles in response before closing his eyes. He has such long eyelashes for a boy, Stensland thinks, delicate and soft which is complete at odds with the rest of him. He’s built like the hull of a ship: strong and well-defined.

Light outside seeps in through the curtains, casting half of his face in shadow but Stensland can see how Clyde had taken his advice and not worn his nerdy button-up shirt. Instead he’s wearing a t-shirt that he’s seen Jimmy wear once or twice and jeans that actually fit him for once and don’t end above his ankles. He looks good, Stensland thinks. He looks nice.

Neither of them say anything for a while and Stensland finally rolls onto his side and faces Clyde. He stares at him: his nose, his shut eyelids, the way his lips part as he breathes. He reaches out and presses two fingers to Clyde’s lips as if he can somehow transmute his experience by touch, but that’s ridiculous because who’d ever want to kiss him. In stories the frog turns into a prince with the magic of a kiss. What if Stensland remains a slimy amphibian forever? 

“She smelled like whiskey,” Clyde mumbles, obviously not as asleep as Stensland had believed.

Stensland jerks his hand away. “What?” he says, heart hammering in his throat. “Who? Evelyn?”

“Yeah,” Clyde yawns, still with his eyes closed. “Didn’t like it that much when she kissed me. Thought it’d feel—I dunno.” He trails off, and Stensland doesn’t ever hear the end of that sentence because Clyde falls asleep, snoring. 

Of course, Stensland thinks. These are just the drunken ramblings of a confused teenager. They don’t mean anything. 

Stensland joins Clyde soon after and he dreams about them as kids swimming in a lake. Stensland swings on a rope out over the center of the water, the sun blinding his eyes, waving at Clyde who’s watching him from the shoreline, a speck so tiny he’s barely even visible. Stensland lets the rope go and then cannonballs into the water. When he breaks the surface, he’s alone.

“Stensland,” Clyde says softly the moment Stensland opens his eyes and he comes to grips with himself. He’d been dreaming all along. He’s back in his room where pre-dawn light leaks through the curtains, lighting up the opposite wall. There are tears in his eyes but he can’t remember how they got there.

Clyde holds his face in his hands. “You were crying in your sleep,” he says. His hands are rough with callouses but they feel nice, they feel familiar.

Stensland hadn’t even noticed the tears. He remembers his dream, there was something about a lake. He breathes deeply, lets Clyde press their foreheads together before pulling back to look at him with the biggest brownest eyes Stensland has ever seen. 

Stensland feels his shoulders relax just as his own eyes flutter shut. He tilts his head so his nose won’t bump into Clyde’s but it’s a hopeless cause; Clyde can’t take a hint, has no regard for personal space because Stensland keeps swallowing Clyde’s every breath, tasting it in the back of his throat. 

“Sorry,” Stensland says, embarrassed, shivering when Clyde’s thumbs brush the back of his ears. “Did I talk in my sleep?”

“You sounded real bad,” Clyde says. Stensland’s heart starts pounding again. He reminds himself he isn’t dreaming anymore. This is real and he’s awake; this is his bed and these are Clyde’s hands on his face touching him with such tenderness.

“You sounded like you were real upset. You all right?”

Clyde’s breath smells like stale beer but Stensland doesn’t mind. If he did, he’d have kicked him out of his bed already. 

“Can’t even remember my dream,” Stensland says. He giggles to lighten the mood but Clyde just keeps looking at him like he knows there’s more to it.

“You’ll tell me won’t you,” Clyde asks, “If something was botherin’ you?”

“I’m fine,” Stensland insists, pointedly looking everywhere but Clyde. “I’m fine.”

“Just don’t feel right that we’re suddenly keepin’ secrets, you know,” Clyde continues. “You’re my best friend and I care about you, Stens.”

Stensland shoves at Clyde’s chest. He doesn’t know what comes over him; maybe he’s still half-asleep, his whole body thrumming with adrenaline from the dream. Maybe this _is_ the dream, because Clyde has no right to be climbing into his bedroom window at an ungodly hour like this is some coming of age movie where everything has meaning and people always have a reason.

They stare at each other for a while saying nothing, and for a brief moment Clyde looks at Stensland like a wounded animal. Then his expression quickly shifts into something more unreadable and hard.

“Are you mad at me, Stens?” Clyde asks, sitting up now. “About kissin’ Evelyn? I don’t even like her. You do know that, right?”

“I’m not mad at you, Clyde,” Stensland sighs though he will be soon if Clyde continues to look at him like that. He grits his teeth, batting Clyde’s hands away when he tries to reach for Stensland again. 

“Fine,” Stensland huffs, throwing his hands up in defeat. “I guess I’m a little jealous that you’re getting to do all these cool things without me.” Kissing girls, meeting new people, having a life outside of their friendship. It feels like Stensland is a spectator watching Clyde’s life unfold from a distant shoreline. He should be happy for Clyde. But he’s not, and he knows that makes him a terrible person but sometimes he just feels things so deeply.

“You know I’d rather be hangin’ out with you than Jimmy and his friends anyway,” Clyde tells him, “You’re more important to me than—“

“Stop! Just— don’t say stuff like that!” Stensland screeches, suddenly panicked. “You’re making it weird!”

“Makin’ what weird?” Clyde asks. His eyes are bloodshot but otherwise he’s looking pretty sober. “How am I makin’ it weird, Stens? I’m just bein’ honest. ”

“We’re not little kids anymore!” Stensland reminds him. “We shouldn’t be—we shouldn’t be hugging all the time or touching each other like—” _Like what?_ Stensland thinks but doesn’t say. He doesn’t know and doesn’t want to think about it either.

“Never thought there was anythin’ weird about it,” Clyde says. “Didn’t know it was makin’ you uncomfortable neither. You should’ve told me. I would’ve stopped—”

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I think you should leave.” Stensland walks over to the open window. He lowers his voice before his parents can hear them arguing across the hall. His dad often gets up early for his morning runs. 

There’s a slight breeze coming in from the street. Stensland rubs at his elbows, shivering. “Go!” he says when Clyde just continues to sit there, unmoving. “Go!” he says again, louder this time.

Clyde collects his shoes, almost tripping on a pile of cassette tapes on the floor as he makes his way to the window. Stensland gives him room, moving back to the opposite side of the room. 

Clyde looks back at Stensland, before throwing a leg over the windowsill. 

“Goodbye, Stens,” he hears Clyde say. 

Stensland doesn’t answer.

* * *

With only one week till midterms and the library always full, Stensland takes it upon himself to hunt for quieter study ground . He can’t concentrate at home because his Papa always looks at him like he wants to ask him a question. _Spit it out_ , Stensland wants to scream at him. _Spit it out!_

Everyone seems to think that it’s his fault that he and Clyde are no longer on speaking terms. Everyone including his dad who, for some reason, is usually always suspicious of Clyde despite him being the poster boy of innocence. 

It’s stupid, is the thing, because Stensland doesn’t mean to hurt Clyde’s feelings and push him away. Stensland just always lets things build up inside him until he has no room left for anything. He doesn’t mean half the things he says because most of it is just stream of consciousness garbage.

He can’t stand being at home so he sets up shop in the quad after class where a few students in his grade are spread out, watching the football team during practice. 

There are a few faces Stensland recognizes from some of his other classes. There’s Jimmy too, wearing a Bulls jersey over a white t-shirt and a backwards baseball cap. He looks ridiculous, Stensland thinks, but he’ll get away with anything because he’s the most popular guy in school. 

Stensland watches him out of the corner of his eye before rifling through his binder and taking out his textbooks. He’s stuck post-it notes on all the pages that require reading, highlighting footnotes in felt-tip marker. Usually he isn’t so organized but last summer Clyde showed him how to keep track of all his notes. Clyde has neat penmanship, his letters lean and slanting elegantly to the right. Stensland can barely make out his own chicken scratch, which probably accounts for why he’s failing half his classes. It’s not that he’s stupid; he’s just not that great of a student and tends to focus on the wrong parts of his assignments, getting hung up on tangents and unable to keep his focus.

“Stensland! Catch!”

Stensland looks up, and is wholly unprepared for the football hitting him square in the face. He almost topples over from the force of the impact and has to blink a few times for the dizziness to abate.

Yep. He’s in a pain, a world of pain. 

“Sorry!”

Stensland glares at Jimmy as he approaches, waving at his team for a timeout. “Shit! Stensland! I thought you were gonna catch it with your hands! Not your face!”

“Is my nose bleeding?” Stensland asks, touchingit to check if anything is broken. There are sunspots in his vision but after a few more blinks they thankfully disappear. He touches his fingers to the bump on his forehead and sure enough it feels warm and tender. No concussion though. He can still count backwards from ten to one, his only other talent aside from being a constant disappointment. 

Jimmy shakes his head at him. “Your nose looks pretty all right to me. Bit flat on one side but I think you were born that way.”

Stensland gives him a look that just makes Jimmy laugh and ruffle his hair. “You want me to walk you to the clinic or something?”

“I’ll be fine,” Stensland says, waving him off . He does feel a bit woozy but has a feeling it’ll pass. Stensland doesn’t meet Jimmy’s eyes because it’s clear Jimmy wants to say something else, something about Clyde. 

Because that’s the thing about living in a small town: everyone knows your business.

Stensland leaves the quad and goes to search for another place to study. There’s a vacant table in the library so he dumps all his stuff there and gets to work, slipping his headphones on to block out the white noise. 

_Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want…_

He jolts awake an hour later. 

It takes him a minute to realize that he’s fallen asleep and is drooling a pool of saliva down the inside of his arm. He blinks a few times until he remembers where he is. Then he blinks again and yanks his headphones off. The batteries have died. And there’s Clyde, sitting across him, looking concerned, his brows pulled together tight. 

“Hey,” Stensland says, the first thing he’s said to him in weeks, voice low with sudden nerves.

“Jimmy said you might be here,” Clyde says. “How’s the head?”

Stensland rubs at his forehead ruefully. The spot throbs a little but he doubts the football did any lasting damage. His Papa always said he was just like him, made of sterner stuff and hard-headed and maybe that’s true on both accounts; Stensland has a hard time with compromise, just like his Papa, and he’s fallen off trees and injured himself countless times and yet, by some miracle, he’s still alive. Even his conception, his Papa says, had been a bit of a pleasant surprise. Neither he nor Stensland’s dad had been expecting him.

Stensland pops a crick in his neck, feeling out the kinks in the muscles. The nap helped work some of his earlier headache off and as a result, he finds himself in a less surly mood. “Don’t worry about it, it missed any vital organs. I’ll live.”

Still, Clyde doesn’t look convinced. 

“I wasn’t bein’ weird just now, by the way. Jimmy said to check up on you and I found you here sleepin’ when you should be studyin’.”

Stensland has the good grace to feel sheepish. He feels his entire face heat up; it’s not like he doesn’t try , just that some books bore him. And numbers, especially numbers. He checks his watch: already half past four. Where did the time go?

“Guess I’ll be heading home before my dad calls a search party,” Stensland jokes. He glances up at Clyde before shoving all his notes into his book bag.

Clyde picks up a pen that has rolled off the table and hands it over to Stensland who grabs it without compunction. Their fingers brush but Stensland jerks away before he has the opportunity to really think about it. He tosses the pen, along with his other knick knacks, into his bag before zipping it shut and shouldering it.  
  


“Gotta go. See ya.”

He walks briskly towards the door, but turns when there’s a pat on his shoulder. 

“You forgot these,” Clyde says, lifting Stensland’s headphones into view.

Stensland accepts them with a mumbled thanks, jamming the jack into the port of his walkman which is weighing down his left pocket along with various odds and ends.

“I could drive you home,” Clyde offers, eyeing the door of the library not a few feet away from them like he’s worried Stensland will just turn tail and run like a little coward afraid of confrontation. He’s only half-right, because Stensland has been contemplating that the moment the door has been in range. “I mean, only if you like. Looks like it’s gonna rain anyway and I’m headed home too so...”

Clyde raises his eyebrows hopefully, already falling into step with Stensland. All week Stensland had wanted to come over to Clyde’s house to apologize; all week he’d chickened out of picking up the phone to call him. Why does he have to be such an idiot?

“You sure it’s gonna rain?”

The forecast said clear skies all week long, but sure enough it starts to rain, just like Clyde predicted, as soon as they’re exiting the library. Wind whips the school banners like sails and the two of them sprint across the quad towards the direction of the parking lot, hands held above their heads like shields, Stensland shrieking as he steps into puddles. 

The rain started out light, but by the time they reach Clyde’s car it’s morphed into a full-blown deluge. Stensland throws his bag onto the backseat of the car where Clyde’s gym bag lives along with some of Mellie’s pageant stuff. He grabs a hand towel from the glove compartment for Stensland to use though Stensland’s hair isn’t even really wet, just damp in clumps at the back and front. Meanwhile, Clyde’s hair looks pitiful and strangled, his shirt almost soaked through. 

“I need to get a haircut,” Stensland groans, for a lack of a better thing to say. His hair has grown a bit since the start of the school year, fringing his eyes and going curly at the back. 

Clyde pauses for a moment, not saying anything, his gaze fixed on the half-empty parking lot, then he says, rather abruptly, “I like it like that.”

Stensland has to work off a shiver at the slow drag of Clyde’s vowels. He shakes himself out of it, drying his hair furiously until it stands in electric tufts around his head like bits of nutgrass. Then he turns to look at Clyde for the first time. Clyde is fiddling with the knobs on the radio, listening to snatches of songs in between bits of hissing static.

“Come over here and let me dry your hair,” Stensland says.

It’s probably the wrong thing to say after weeks of ignoring him but Stensland has never known tact in his life. Clyde looks at him cautiously, waiting for the ball to drop, and it seems like all the breath in the world is being held in that moment, waiting too. But this time Stensland isn’t joking or egging him on, though his chest feels suddenly light, so light. He blames the stillness and the silence and the rain drumming softly on the roof, slashing against the rubbery squeak of the windshield wipers. He blames being sixteen and stupid and not knowing what the hell he wants; he’s just a dumb kid from West Virginia. 

Stensland swallows against the rising knot in his throat. “Come here,” he says again.

This time, Clyde follows, swiveling in his seat to unclip his seatbelt and face Stensland before moving his head closer, closer.

Goosebumps rise along the length of his arms; Stensland can see them. He can also feel Clyde’s long exhale when Stensland lays the towel over his head to hang over his ears. He looks ridiculous like that but also like something needing protecting. 

“I thought you said no touchin’,” Clyde mumbles.

Trust Clyde to ruin a good thing. 

Stensland rolls his eyes and tugs on one big ear, peeking out over the curl of Clyde’s hair like a seashell. “Yeah, well I take that back now,” he snorts. “Hold still and shut up.”

Clyde’s lips curl into a small smile. Stensland is much gentler when he dries Clyde’s hair for him, no tugging or pulling as he squeezes out rainwater from the long ends. It’s jet black when it’s wet like this but when the light hits it on a regular day, it lightens to a dark brown. Stensland’s hair meanwhile is just bright orange; it makes him stand out in a crowd and not in a way that he likes. 

“There we go. See?” Stensland says after he’s finished, because he’s trying to make a point. 

Clyde opens his eyes slowly. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Stensland replies. 

Then Clyde cups the back of Stensland’s hand that’s still pressed to his cheek. He has big hands; Stensland always notices them, just like he always notices Clyde’s shoulders which make you want to lean on them. His thumb glides across Stensland’s knuckles, making Stensland’s throat fill up. 

_Please don’t do anything stupid,_ Stensland thinks, _please, please,_ but Clyde doesn’t hear him and goes on ahead and kisses him anyway— dry, with his lips closed, just a ghost of a kiss that’s a fleeting brush at best. 

Stensland is breathing rapidly from the suddenness of it all. His best friend has just kissed him. His best friend with whom he sometimes shares a bed. His best friend Clyde, after nearly eight years of friendship and pillow fights and making paper planes to aim at passing cars. 

Stensland pulls his hand free from Clyde’s grip, panicking like a trapped bird. He does the first thing he can think of: he slaps Clyde across the face. The hit comes at a weird angle that jolts Clyde back and makes him gasp in surprise. There’s blood when he turns to look at Stensland again, dappling a corner of his lip where he’d bit it. He rubs his mouth against the back of his hand, smearing it all over. 

Stensland has never hit Clyde before.

“ _Shit, shit, shit, shit._ ” 

Stensland scrambles for something to sop up the blood. It’s just a minor injury but that’s not the point, he still hurt Clyde. He picks up the towel he’d dropped on the floor but Clyde just holds his hand up in the universal sign of _don’t bother._

_“_ Sorry,” Stensland says at the same time as Clyde. They exchange careful glances before bursting into weak laughter, Clyde gripping the steering wheel and staring at his lip. 

It’s still raining outside. Stensland wonders if anyone saw them. 

“We should probably go home,” he suggests after a moment.

Clyde looks at him for a long time and then he drives out of the school parking lot without saying another word. 

* * *

Stensland lies on his bed that night thinking: about how little he knows about anything, about Clyde and his little farewell salute when he dropped Stensland off at home that afternoon, about Clyde kissing him there in his car, the kind of kiss Stensland never thought he’d capable of—not that he often thought of Clyde and kissing in the same sentence before—softly and with heartbreaking tenderness.

Then he wonders what would have happened if Clyde hadn’t kissed him, if he hadn’t gone looking for Stensland in the library that afternoon. Maybe Stensland will never know but if he’s lucky then they’ll just sweep everything under the rug like they do with most things. This isn’t even the worst that’s ever happened between them. In middle school, the girl Stensland had a crush on, Layla Epstein, who used to lick the filling between Oreos before eating them, let slip that Clyde was more her type than Stensland. Stensland didn’t speak to him for months. He was so upset that he made himself sick, but Clyde just kept coming over to check on how he was doing and Stensland didn’t have the heart to keep turning him away.

Stensland falls into fitful sleep, in the same clothes he’d come home to from school, face scrunched into the pillow. He jerks awake with a grunt. It’s late already, judging by the light outside and how still the house is, so quiet he can hear the clock ticking on the wall. He missed dinner and his parents had either not bothered to wake him or simply couldn’t. He slept hard, the sleep of the weary.

He changes into pjs before heading downstairs to forage for sustenance. There’s a plate of mac and cheese covered in clingfilm left out for him on the table which he reheats in the microwave and takes with him to the empty living room. There’s nothing interesting on TV this late at night and his parents didn’t bother getting cable because they said it rots the brain, so he settles for one of those home shopping channels where a tired middle-aged man in a flashy suit is trying to sell a whole set of sharp kitchen knives, throwing in a free hand mixer for good measure. It’s mindless enough to be almost meditative, at least until he hears his dad coming in through the front door. He hadn’t even heard the car pulling up into the driveway. His dad should be in bed. Then again, he’s always kept such strange hours, working for law enforcement.

Stensland thinks he’s going to be in trouble for watching TV this late on a weekday—and not even the good kind— when his dad throws his car keys into the bowl in the foyer and looks at him rather grimly. He doesn’t seem to take notice of the TV which is a good sign. But then he hunkers down on the sofa, and swipes the plate of mac and cheese from Stensland’s hands, which Stensland is having difficulty interpreting whether or not that is a good thing. His dad shoves a big forkful into his mouth before shaking his head and sighing. Mac and Cheese is his favourite and Stensland’s Papa knows just the way he likes it: with a pinch of paprika like his mom used to make.

“Everything okay, dad?” Stensland asks, feeling nervous and not knowing exactly why. Something about his dad’s demeanor: he doesn’t usually look so defeated. 

His dad looks at him for a long time, not saying anything, before grabbing him in a one-armed hug, squashing him against his armpit. 

Stensland flails and tries to slip free but his grip is tight and firm.  
  
“What the heck! Dad!” he whines.

Again with that grim look on his face. Stensland’s dad has never been good with words because he doesn’t use words to express himself. He’s a man of action, Stensland’s Papa often says, which means he is mute on all but the most mundane topics. All his favourite movies are action movies with big explosions and guns barring _The Lady and the Tramp_ which he says reminds him of Stensland’s Papa. They met while he was on a special assignment. His Papa had been wearing a leopard-printed shirt.

“Clyde and Jimmy’s dad got into an accident on the freeway,” he says.

“What?” Stensland doesn’t understand why this is particularly relevant to him. All the Logan boys drive fast cars, it’s in their blood like a birthright. There’s been a few accidents over the years, sure, but no one had ever gotten hurt, not in the way it mattered. 

There’s a clomp of footsteps on the stairwell. Stensland’s Papa is awake now too, it seems. He’s bleary-eyed and wearing his robe and bedroom slippers.  
  
“Everything all right down here? You’re home pretty late.” He may sound accusing but there’s a fond note of exasperation in his voice that makes Stensland feel almost embarrassed to be in the same room as them.

He and Stensland’s dad exchange meaningful looks. Stensland hates when they do that because it makes him feel left out. This time it’s even worse because of the things that aren’t being said. He can feel his anxiety tipping, the tension so thick it makes him want to throw up.

“There’s been an accident,” his dad finally says, before turning to Stensland and squeezing his hands in his. “Clyde’s dad didn’t make it. He was injured real bad when they brought him to the hospital.”

“ _Shit_ ,” Stensland’s Papa breathes. “Jesus, _fuck_. Poor Mel. What about the kids?”

Dad shakes his head; he doesn’t know.

Stensland feels the blood in his limbs run cold. His Papa starts saying something to his dad but he doesn’t hear any of it because he’s racing out the front door and across the yard, clambering up the Logans’ front steps on bare feet. He almost trips twice but he matches to catch himself on his hands. The light in the living room is on and he can hear voices inside. 

“Clyde! It’s me! Open up!” He bangs his fists against the door but it’s Clyde’s mom who answers , her face tear-stained and red like an overripe fruit.

“Stensland,” she says, her fist tightly curled over her chest. They already know.

Clyde appears over her shoulder a second later and steps outside on the porch, shutting the door behind him.

“I’m sorry,” Stensland says. “Shit, I’m sorry.” He starts to cry, just standing there like an idiot wearing strawberry-printed pajamas, shivering in the autumnal breeze. He doesn’t know why he can’t stop crying. It’s Clyde who should be bawling his eyes out; it’s his dad who died. 

“Stensland,” Clyde says and something in the way he says Stensland’s name just makes him cry even harder. He feels Clyde’s arms come around him immediately, his hands drifting down his back, the way he used to hug Stensland in terror when they watched scary movies together: tightly like he was afraid of ever letting go. He smells like everything familiar, like everything good that has ever happened to Stensland in his short life.

“It’s okay. You’re all right. It’s okay. Just calm down, Stens,” Clyde says. _But how can he_? It doesn’t seem fair that Clyde’s dad is dead when there are far worse people who’d deserve it: deadbeat husbands who beat their wives and kids, and not Mr Logan who fixed the gears on Stensland’s bike that one summer he wore them down racing Clyde around the neighborhood. 

“It’s okay,” Clyde says again, as if it’s Stensland who somehow needs to hear that.

Even though he’s older than Stensland by a year, Stensland sometimes feels that Clyde needs someone to look out for him, to protect him from the things he doesn’t see coming. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs into Clyde’s hair, which scratches his eyes and makes them water. “Shit, this sucks. Shit, I’m sorry for being such an idiot. Shit, Clyde. Shit, shit, shit.” He punches Clyde lightly in the chest before crumpling and resting his forehead against his shoulder. Stensland is shaking all the way down to his fingertips but it’s not from the cold. “Say something. Why aren’t you saying anything?”

Clyde waits a beat before responding. He’s got a look in his eyes that makes Stensland feel as if he weren’t here anymore but miles and years away.  
  
“Guess I’m still in shock,” he says. “Your dad was nice enough to come by and offer to drive us to the county morgue. Tell him my mom said thanks, okay? She wouldn’t stop cryin’. Now Mellie’s all upset too and won’t stop cryin’ either.”

Stensland hugs him tightly. “I’m sorry,” he says again, because there’s nothing left to say. He’s never lost anyone in his life, all his family members alive and accounted for, so he can’t imagine the depth of Clyde’s grief. 

He’s not a big talker, Clyde. Not like Stensland, who never knows when to shut up even when he needs to. He and Clyde are different that way, Stensland thinks, and maybe that’s why they make such good friends; they fall easily together like old clothes. 

Stensland talks and Clyde listens; that’s always been how they were. It doesn’t mean Clyde is slow or stupid, like other people whisper behind his back; he’s just different; sometimes different is good.

They stand there out on the front steps, holding each other for a long time in the dark. Stensland wishes this were all a bad dream, a product of eating his dinner so late at night. He gets them sometimes, same as the ones where he wakes up uncomfortably sweaty, needing to wash the sheets.

He strokes Clyde’s back thoughtfully. 

Clyde sighs. This time it’s a deep sigh, so Stensland squeezes him, once for luck, and once more for reassurance even though neither of them can know if anything will ever be the same again. 

All either of them can do for now is hope.

* * *

The funeral is on Tuesday. Stensland wears black khakis and his Papa tames down his hair with pomade, making it look flat on one side and a little bit silly, but he doesn’t care. For the first time in his life he doesn’t give a shit what he looks like. 

He goes to Clyde’s house after the funeral.Once there he isn’t quite sure what to do with himself apart from helping Clyde’s mom offer guests some food. There’s plenty of it, mostly desserts, and everything looks good: people have chipped in and brought their own cooking, even Stensland’s Papa who rarely makes food for other people but their family. 

Stensland’s stomach rumbles in hunger though he doesn’t touch anything; it doesn’t seem all that polite to eat when Mrs Logan is sitting at the kitchen table with her head in her hands. 

Half the town is congregated in the yard, all of them in black like characters from a comic strip. Stensland’s Papa put himself in charge of answering the door for guests. There are some familiar faces, people from the community who knew Clyde’s dad or went to the same school as Stensland and Clyde or else family flown in from out of state. 

Clyde is nowhere to be seen. 

Stensland hasn’t spoken to him since the day on the porch. He climbs up the stairs quietly, leaving the tray of finger sandwiches on the coffee table. On the wall is an ascending row of photographs of the Logan siblings: Mellie with her pageant crown bigger than her little head, Jimmy in his football uniform, then Clyde wearing a little bowtie, his ears sticking out of his hair, his smile missing a few teeth. 

Stensland touches Clyde’s photograph with a fingertip. It hasn’t been moved in some time; the frame is covered in a thick film of dust. He continues up the stairs, past the bathroom and Mellie’s bedroom, past Clyde’s parents’ bedroom with the fancy double doors. He stops in front of the door at the end of the hall: Clyde and Jimmy’s room. He can see Clyde lying on the bed with his shoes still on, his back to Stensland.

“Hey,” Stensland says, knocking gently to announce his presence. 

Clyde doesn’t budge.

Stensland lets himself in regardless. He stands there watching Clyde for a while. They’d seen each other at the funeral but Stensland’s family had been seated so far away from Clyde’s that Stensland didn’t have the opportunity to offer his condolences. 

Clyde and Jimmy’s room isn’t really small, but it seems so, with the two unmade beds against opposite walls and a huge desk underneath the window, covered with heaps and heaps of stuff: piles of papers and books and what looks to Stensland in the dim light to be action figures. The only light in the room is coming from a desk lamp, the type with an adjustable neck that everyone seems to have in their bedroom but Stensland. 

Stensland seats himself at the foot of Clyde’s bed. There’s a poster of _Return of the Jedi_ on the wall, the edges curling inward where the tape has come off. They rented it on VHS last summer; Stensland’s dad had made them lightsabers out of junk lying around in the garage.

“Are you okay?” Stensland asks.

“No,” Clyde says. His eyes aren’t even closed. He’s staring blankly at the wall, unblinking. Stensland is afraid to touch him so he puts his hand on the bedspread instead, curling his finger around a thread that has come loose from the weave. 

He wants to say he’s sorry about Clyde’s dad but he’s already said that and he knows Clyde must be sick of it. He wishes he knew the magic words to make everything all right again. It’s ironic that the one time it matters, he actually has nothing to say at all. 

Stensland curls up behind Clyde, lying scrunched up like a little comma. He presses his forehead to Clyde’s back, listening to him exhale, his breath choppy as it rises and falls. 

Slowly, Clyde turns around to face him. 

Stensland’s never seen him cry before. He hugs him, so he doesn’t have to look at his face.

“Sorry,” Clyde mumbles against his neck, making Stensland shiver when tears dampen his skin. 

“It’s okay,” Stensland tells him. “It’s all right.” 

He pulls back, wiping the tears off Clyde’s cheeks with his thumbs. Clyde eyes are all brown and wet. Stensland hates seeing him like this, when he’s helpless to do anything about it. He’s a lousy best friend who can’t even be there for Clyde.

He combs the hair out of Clyde’s face with his fingers, tucking it behind his ears. They lapse into a drowsy silence before falling asleep.  
  
Stensland comes to in the dark, unable to see much of anything though he can feel Clyde’s warm weight on top of him, his breath fanning his cheek. Clyde’s arm is circling his waist, his hand high up Stensland’s ribs, his face nestled in the crook of Stensland’s neck, deeply asleep.

Stensland doesn’t mind. He pretends to, sometimes, because it’s his deepest secret, but here in this bedroom where it’s just the two of them in the dark, he doesn’t feel ashamed. 

Stensland slips out of Clyde’s grip when he hears footsteps in the hallway. It’s Jimmy, knocking first before entering as if this isn’t his room. He’s wearing a black suit, like he’s going to prom. 

“Your parents are lookin’ all over for you,” he tells Stensland.

Stensland nods. He looks back at Clyde still sleeping in his bed, his hair a dark curtain avalanching his face. His mom never took them to the barber, so she cut all of their hair until they were old enough to do it themselves. One summer Stensland had helped Clyde cut his. Clyde had ended up with a hideous buzzcut all year long and never let him near an electric razor ever again.

Stensland twines his fingers in Clyde’s long, messy hair. He’s glad Clyde has decided to grow it out, because it looks good on him, hiding his ears that Stensland doesn’t mind but other kids tease him about. 

Jimmy hesitates at the door, clearly waiting for him to leave. Finally, Stensland gets up and follows him downstairs.

* * *

Stensland goes to prom in April. He doesn’t have a date but he’s part of the committee organizing it so he doesn’t have a choice. His parents buy him a suit resembling something out of a wedding catalogue and take a dozen pictures of him standing by the stairwell in various poses. He gets dropped off at the school auditorium as it’s on his way to the police station and his dad is working the night shift again. 

“Remember to have fun,” his dad says, adjusting Stensland’s lapel before giving his cheek a pinch. Stensland clambers out of the car before he does anything embarrassing. 

The music isn’t any good: just a cover band from out of town doing covers of 80s songs and not even the good ones like Billy Idol. Stensland sips punch at the buffet table, spilling some on his sleeve. Then he steps outside for some fresh air because the music is so bad and he can’t stand the jerky dancing.

He exits the building, unable to figure out what it is he’s really feeling. Just as he turns to walk back inside, a cloud of smoke rises into the air from around the corner. Stensland feels slightly relieved when he walks toward it and Phillip comes into view. At last a familiar face. 

Phillip squints up at him, tilting his head like he’s trying to recall where he knows him from. 

Stensland saves him the grief and introduces himself.

“We were in shop class together,” he reminds Phillip.

Phillip grins and resumes his lazy stance, leaning against the building to continue smoking his joint.

“You want a hit of this?” he asks, when he sees Stensland eyeing the joint. He passes it along carefully. Stensland takes it without question and holds the smoke in his lungs before breathing it out in curls. It tastes different from that first time, rich and heady like newly turned earth but with a little kick of… something. 

_Something, something,_ he thinks, and then he realizes he’s said that bit out loud because Phillip is laughing at him.

Phillip, who always seems untouched by anything, too cool for Prom, waits until he passes back the joint. “You all right? You look like you really needed it.”

“Do I really?” Stensland bangs his fist against his chest, clearing his lungs. 

“Yeah,” Phillip affirms. “Tough year?”

“Tough life,” Stensland snorts. “How can you stand to be so…blasé about everything?”

“It’s a gift. I just stopped giving a fuck,” Phillip grins. “I mean a lot of bad things are going to happen anyway and we’re gonna die relatively soon so, that being said, we have nothing to worry about.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

Phillip pats him on the back. Then he stares at Stensland’s lapels, then his whole ensemble, before finally lingering on his wing-tip shoes. “Nice suit by the way. You going to a wedding or something?”

“ _Ugh._ ” Stensland holds out his hand impatiently. “Pass me the joint.”

“I’m surprised you’re out here, all alone,” Phillip says after a beat of silence and several more hits that he exhales through his nose. 

Stensland looks at him. He could say the same about Phillip. Usually he’s surrounded by a gaggle of girls but it looks like he’s opted to go solo tonight. He’s even wearing jeans, which is clearly not in theme with this year’s pastel motif.

“Where’s your friend?”

_Clyde_ , Stensland thinks and remembers that they haven’t spoken all that much since the funeral. The Logans have been busy. He hears his parents talk about them in hushed whispers at night: rumours of them moving to Charleston where Mrs Logan has some family. They’ve started selling everything including Clyde’s car to pay for the mortgage. Jimmy has already started college on an athletic scholarship but it’s Clyde’s last year in high school and everything is hanging on the balance.

“I heard about what happened to his dad. Wasn’t he some sort of famous mechanic for NASCAR or whatever?”

Stensland shrugs one shoulder. He doesn’t want to talk about it because it’s Clyde’s life and he wants to respect that.

“Do you have any more of those?” he asks instead, gesturing to Phillip’s half-smoked joint. Phillip hums for a moment, thinking, before conjuring a baggie full of rolled-up zigzags from seemingly out of nowhere.

“Gonna cost you,” Phillip says.

“How about I don’t sic my dad on your arse for possession?”

Phillip laughs. “Deal.”

He hands Stensland a joint. “Just one?” Stensland raises an eyebrow.

“ _Fine_.” Phillip hands him a couple more, stowing away the rest in his pocket and crossing his arms to signal that the transaction has been completed, the store is closed. 

“I’m headed back inside,” Phillip announces after a moment. “You coming or what?”

_Is he?_ It takes him only half a second to really think about it. “Fuck the prom,” Stensland says and starts walking the opposite direction.  
  
He takes the bus home, working on auto-pilot and instead of entering through the front door, he takes a detour to the backyard. He climbs the fence separating his yard from the Logans’, catching himself on his palms when he hits the grass. No one notices him. 

All the lights are off, even the Christmas lights wreathing the lemon tree all year round. Stensland starts taking off his shoes; then he takes off his socks. He dips his feet in the Logans’ bean-shaped pool, splashing absently back and forth, taking out the spare lighter and joint Phillip has been kind enough to bestow upon him; a parting gift in case Stensland might need it, he said. 

With the sky absent of stars,and the night breeze licking his hair, smoking feels almost meditative. Stensland used to come over to the Logans’ house because he liked that they had a pool. And there was also always food in the fridge; Clyde’s mom loved to cook for everyone.

“Stensland?”

Stensland turns to see Clyde standing in the doorway, backlit by the light. He’s wearing long johns and an old t-shirt with the collar stretched out and the sleeves sawed off with a box cutter. 

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

Stensland lifts his hand to motion Clyde to join him. Clyde doesn’t budge for a second but then he sighs, closes the door, and sits cross-legged on the deck next to Stensland, their arms almost touching. He has muscles now; his limbs have completely filled out. Stensland wonders when he started noticing.

“Where’d you get that?” Clyde asks, pointing to the joint in Stensland’s hand. It’s unclear whether or not disapprovesbecause he has an inscrutable look on his face. Clyde has always been a stickler for the rules even at the cost of his own interest. Stensland passes him the joint just to test him and is surprised when Clyde accepts after only a moment’s hesitation. And then Clyde takes hits off the joint like a pro and starts hacking and coughing out smoke. 

Stensland grins and pats him on the back, a direct echo of what Phillip had done only moments earlier. “It takes a while before you really feel the kick. Then it’s all downhill from there.”

Clyde gives him a look that just makes Stensland grin wider. He feels really good right now, all his emotions muted, like nothing can ever go wrong at this point in time. All his vestigial sadness has been shoved away inside a little box in the dark compartment of his brain. He’s not happy per se, just floating.

Then Clyde drops a bombshell.

“I got into West Point,” Clyde says after a moment. West Point, as in the military school. Clyde is older by a year but it’s never occurred to Stensland that he’ll be the one leaving first. And it’s not even for the usual reasons; he’s joining the fucking military.

“It’s what my dad woulda wanted,” Clyde says when Stensland continues to say nothing.  
  
Something about the uneven set of Clyde’s mouth, or maybe the light from the street softening the angles of his face, makes him seem young and vulnerable.

“Is it what you want?” Stensland asks instead of congratulating him.

Clyde shrugs, laying on his back on the deck with his arms behind his head, gaze fixed on the night sky stretching out above them. It makes Stensland feel small and insignificant, knowing there’s a whole world out there, somewhere among the stars and sky, a world Clyde will soon be part of, leaving him behind. 

Stensland’s stomach starts pinching up. He doesn’t look at Clyde whose shirt has ridden up his belly, whose eyes are half-closed. 

“I don’t know,” Clyde sighs. “I mean, I guess. Nothin’ better to do anyway. Might as well see what the fuss is all about.” 

“You know you don’t have to prove anything,” Stensland says, and it must have struck a nerve because Clyde’s mouth thins to a serious line.

“I’m not trying to — look, Stensland, I know you think I’m not made for the military, but I think I might actually have what it takes. I think I can do it—”

“What if you can’t?” Stensland says, interrupting Clyde before he can finish his sentence, his voice starting to gain a little more volume.   
  
The truth is he’s more terrified that Clyde is right. _What if he can?_ He’s the most tenacious person Stensland has ever met and there’s something quick and precise and deadly in him, a part of him he doesn’t understand but that he needs to get out and that only the military can help him with.

But Clyde is also sweet and kind and generous with his affections. Stensland doesn’t want him hardened by the military, doesn’t want him to be cannon fodder. 

Clyde’s expression twists sourly then it smoothes out to one of defeat. “Can’t you be happy for me for once?” He sits up slowly, leaning back on his palms to look at Stensland. His eyes seem wet in the dark. “Jesus, Stens,” he begs. “Just this once. Please. Tell me you’re happy for me.” 

The fuse of hot, seething anger in Stensland’s chest bursts into flame but then extinguishes as soon as it comes. Now he’s just exhausted instead of angry, resigned instead of trying to delay the inevitable. He takes a fortifying breath, then a long drag of his joint. It doesn’t have the calming effect he’s hoping for, his hands are still shaking with the effort of holding back… there are tears in his eyes but he keeps them at bay. He’s so tired.

“Stensland,” Clyde says. 

Stensland picks up his shoes, his socks, tucking them under his arm. It gives him something to do, an outlet for his misplaced disappointment. 

“ _Mazel tov_ ,” he says, before climbing back up the fence, back to his own yard, back to his house and his bed. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stensland comes home

_Fast forward_

* * *

The call comes at midnight and it’s a miracle Stensland hears it over the din of music. He presses his phone closer to his ear, ducking out of the club and onto the street clustered with smokers and people all queueing to get in.

It’s his Papa, his voice low and watery with exhaustion in a way Stensland has never heard it before.   
  
“Papa,” Stensland says when his Papa starts getting incomprehensible. “Slow down, slow down, please.” 

“It’s your dad,” his Papa says. “He had a stroke.”

* * *

Stensland’s always known it was coming but it still takes him by surprise. His parents aren’t getting any younger, and neither is he. Ever since he retired, his dad has been in poor health for a while and Stensland knew it was just a matter of time before the diabetes or the heart troubles or something else won out. But nothing could have ever prepared him for his Papa’s clogged and teary voice telling him that his dad had a stroke. 

Stensland promises to make arrangements, to get plane tickets, all the necessary things, and then he flips his phone shut and stands on the street outside the club where he had been hoping to pick up girls, to forget the whole drama of Morgan and Grady, one hand on the wall. He tries not to think about anything but it’s not so easy when his heart is beating a mile a minute. He goes back inside the club, asks for the strongest drink he can afford to be put on his tab, then he downs it in one go and leaves promptly. No girls or guys are going home with him tonight but when has that ever been true? Tonight will be no different just because he’s desperate to forget what’s waiting for him at home in Boone County. 

Moving to Seattle, like most things in his life, Stensland is just realizing, had been a fluke. No matter where you go, you take a piece of home with you. He doesn’t know whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

To pay for the plane ticket, Stensland borrows money from his roommate Lyle. Lyle had hesitated at first, until Stensland explained he had to go home for his dad and even then he made Stensland promise to pay him back as soon as possible because money was tight. Stensland still owes Lyle two months worth of rent, because he has yet to find a job that doesn’t make him want to gouge his eyes out in boredom. In the end, Lyle gave him a couple hundred dollars, said he was sorry to hear about Stensland’s dad and to call him once he landed. 

He’s a good person, the best roommate anyone could ask for, and Stensland sometimes wishes he wasn’t such an arsehole towards Lyle because they could have been friends, real friends in the truest sense of the word. 

He falls asleep on the plane, feeling guilty about it, then has a nightmare about getting apprehended by the authorities in Charleston after forgetting to pack enough underwear. He also dreams about his dad but the dream feels more like a memory to him, fleeting and ephemeral like all childhood memories are. In it he’s four years old and his dad has just bought him a pair of light-up shoes. He shows Stensland how to tie them, telling him a story about a squirrel and a tree. _Grab the squirrel, make it run around to the back of the tree and jump into the hole! Jump! Jump!_

Stensland jumps.

He wakes up and he’s in Charleston.

* * *

Charleston is hot. 

Stensland feels the temperature as soon as he steps out onto the tarmac, his upper lip beading with sweat, his pits already humid in the nascent July heat. 

It’s late; his flight had been delayed by three hours because of some mishap or another. He was supposed to be home by midday but now it’s past dinnertime and he’s both hungry and tired, still reeling from strange dreams that he can hardly even remember.

He sits at the arrivals gate, ripping the tags off his luggage. He buys a scone, disappointed he had to settle for blueberry, calling his Papa from a payphone because his cell phone ran out of minutes. But there’s no answer, and the phone just keeps on ringing and ringing. For a moment, he’s seized by immediate panic until it hits him that it’s probably just the time difference, nothing serious. The further east you go, the later it becomes and maybe his parents are simply asleep right now, keeping an early schedule because they’re too old to stay up. The weather is supposed to be milder too in this neck of the country but Stensland hasn’t been home in years so he doesn’t know what else has changed since he left.

He takes the last bus of the night to Boone County, walks the rest of the way to his old neighborhood where the houses seem smaller for some reason and more cramped than he remembers. He wishes, not for the first time, that his parents would move out of this shitty neighborhood and into a better one. Over the years he kept on nagging them about it but his dad just laughed at him and said “oh sweetheart, where would we go?” because he liked being able to brag to his old buddies about his son who went to art school, his son who’s making a name for himself out there in sunny California, even though Stensland only lived there for about a month before moving to Oregon where he pawned all his belongings for a month’s worth of weed. 

He climbs up the steps to his parents’ front porch; every step makes it creak. There’s a doghouse in the yard but it’s empty and looks like it has been for a while. It's funny to Stensland because he’s always wanted a dog as a kid but his parents always said no. It figures that they’d get one by the time he moved out of the house. 

Stensland rings the doorbell and waits outside until his Papa answers the door wearing a bathrobe over his clothes and a pair of moccasins for slippers. He looks sleep-deprived, white threading his hair, which is longer now at the back, but he seems happy to see Stensland and Stensland is happy to see him too. They hug at the door, his Papa squeezing him and kissing his face until Stensland has to break away for air. 

He smells like cigarettes and sweat and Stensland’s childhood and something about it moves Stensland so deeply that he’s terrified he might start crying. But he manages to keep himself together enough to look at his Papa, really look at him, at the years etched into his face and weighing down his eyes. 

“Why didn’t you call me? I would’ve picked you up from the airport.”

“I tried but no one was picking up,” Stensland says.

His Papa nods at him, his arms still around Stensland. “You want some food?”

He heats Stensland some leftover casserole, vegan because his Papa has Stensland’s dad in mind. His Papa watches him eat at the counter, chin resting on his fist, like Stensland is ten years old again and his Papa is simply waiting to do the last of the dishes before getting on with his day. 

Neither of them talk about anything meaningful. His Papa doesn’t ask him about work or his life in general or the fact that Stensland still owes him money that his dad doesn’t know about but that he promised to return a year ago.

Stensland’s dad is asleep upstairs. Stensland doesn’t want to wake him this late at night, so he delays the tearful reunion until tomorrow when he’s had a shower and some sleep. He needs to feel like himself again, not a paper-thin facsimile that smiles and says things his parents want to hear. 

His room isn’t ready to sleep in, the other half of it made to store years and years’ worth of junk, so his dad takes a spare blanket from the hallway closet and relegates him to the couch. 

“You okay on the couch?” his Papa asks, pushing his hair back from his face.

“I’ll be fine,” Stensland promises.

His Papa leaves the hallway light on, like Stensland is still a little kid still afraid of the dark. 

“Good night,” he says.

Stensland pulls his shirt and his pants off before crawling under the blanket. It smells so familiar, he wonders if his parents still use the same brand of detergent. He has an apartment in Seattle but it doesn’t have the same smell as this blanket, which is quite frankly depressing. 

His feet hang off the edge of the sofa, peeking out of the blanket. Stensland stares at the ceiling, tracing the cracks spiderwebbing across the paint with his eyes. Everyone is asleep, his parents, the entire neighborhood. There’s nothing but silence pressing all around him and the sound of his own breathing, a shaky in and out. 

_ He’s home. _


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

Clyde likes to go running at the crack of dawn. It helps ground him and he doesn’t have to think about the dreams. In fact, he doesn’t have to think about anything at all because with running there is no objective. Running is about rhythm and pace and cadence and Clyde can fall headlong into it like breathing air. 

Running is all about surrender. 

Clyde used to run on the high school track team but quit halfway into the school year because he didn’t like to do it competitively: it wasn’t about being faster or better than others, though he was the best one on the team and his coach begged him to reconsider. 

What he liked about it was the rush of adrenaline, the sheer freedom of folding out into all of his limbs and getting lost in the moment. He dreams about it sometimes, when he remembers to take his Ambien: running, just running, past glimpses of people and places he knows.

Clyde likes running in the neighborhoods he grew up around, wondering if the same people still live in the same houses. If Mr McGregor ever moved to London like he kept saying he would. If the Beards ever had kids after losing little Timmy.

Most people never move out of Boone County because why would they. His momma always said they had everything they would ever need here in Boone County, so there was no point in leaving. Well, his momma is gone now and Clyde still hasn’t left. They never really traveled when he was a kid. The only other time he had been out of state was when he attended West Point in New York and then got deployed to Afghanistan, where the gravel was sunbaked and there was nothing but sun and sky and a jagged scar of land carved by bullets and shrapnel. He used to want to leave Boone County but after all that’s happened, he realizes he has nowhere else to go.

When Clyde finally circles back to his house, he’s wide awake with renewed energy but also still somewhat contemplative. He hates getting into these moods but that’s part of his routine now too, the same way he has to keep reminding himself to wear the prosthetic before leaving the house. He doesn’t like wearing it at home because he has no reason to, long past feeling sorry for himself and the loss of limb. He only wears it because it makes people less uncomfortable around him. He still entertains every question; it just makes him tired when he gets asked the same thing on a day to day basis.

Clyde kicks off all his clothes and gets into the shower. Sometimes he jerks off when he has the time and thinks about nothing in particular, just the bodies he’s shared a bed with over the years and the stream of hot water beating his back numb. But this morning he has errands to run and people to see so he cuts his shower short and lets go of his dick. 

He makes coffee and shoves a piece of toast down his throat while reading the morning paper at the counter. He burnt the bacon again this morning, distracted by the wasp nest jutting out from the corner ceiling of his front porch. It’s late into July and the bugs are already out, ants climbing up the kitchen walls and bees humming in the yard. Even though it’s still early, the air is already wet and humid and Clyde can feel the sweat beading at his hairline. 

Clyde makes a mental note to take care of the wasp nest later. It’s getting late and he has a bar to open.

* * *

Clyde isn’t even a big fan of alcohol but he was sitting on a lot of money in savings and disability cheques from the army so he figured: why not, how hard could it be running a bar? 

The real answer was: tough as balls. Trying to build a business from the ground up was like suicide. Mellie came to help from time to time but there was a real issue when it came to logistics. He needed a liquor supplier and a literal extra pair of hands when there was a bigger crowd on the weekends. 

During the first few months of opening shop, he did everything by himself, eager to prove to everybody that he didn’t need any help. Halfway into the year, he finally admitted defeat and hired a guy, a young man named Bill who always wore his red hair up in a ponytail, to come in three times a week to do inventory and clean up after closing.

_Duck Tape_ is one of two bars still left in town; the third one closed down last summer and became a coffee shop for young people. 

They’re a dying breed, true, but business has been good in the last year, which almost makes Clyde nervous because his luck has never been all that great. It’s the family curse, which Jimmy says he’s being an idiot about but Clyde has always believed in the power of stories: sometimes the truest ones are the ones you don’t really have to think about. Looking back, it all makes sense: his parents dying one after the other, Jimmy busting his knee, Mellie. Then him: losing his hand and not even during the thick of the action. 

But at least Clyde can pay his bills and his mortgage and still has a little money left that he can put away; at least he can have this: a semblance of a life, a good, solid routine. Most people can’t even have that; he should count himself lucky. 

At the end of the day that’s all a man can really ask for. He’s not greedy, Clyde. The only time he wanted, as in ever wanted anything with the desperation of a starving man in a moonless desert, has been so long time ago that he’s forgotten what he wanted in the first place. He’s old enough now to accept that some things were never in the cards for him.

There are days though when Clyde hates it. When the nightmares from the night before seep into his waking life and he can’t bear the thought of rolling out of bed to start another day. When the mere thought of standing behind that linoleum-topped bar, serving drinks one-handed and fielding questions about his missing hand just makes him want to puke his guts. Those days are the hardest because he can’t even bring himself to run or eat or function. Those days he just goes back to sleep and hopes he never wakes up again.

* * *

Clyde used to live next door to the O’Malley-Zimmermans. They were real good to him growing up, especially after he lost his momma. So he doesn’t mind doing things for them from time to time, like picking stuff up for them from the grocery store or calling up the pharmacy when Mr Zimmerman needed a refill for his heart medication. On weekends and when he had the time, he even mowed their lawn. 

They were old, probably around the same age Clyde’s parents would have been if they hadn’t kicked the bucket. Mr Zimmerman used to be a detective for the county but he retired a few years back after busting his knee. 

Recently, he had a stroke. He was just discharged from the hospital a few days ago where Clyde remembers sitting with his husband Mr O’Malley in the waiting room, squeezing his hand while they waited for the verdict from the doctor. Mr Zimmerman would live, the doctor said, but he would have trouble speaking and it would take some time before he fully recovered. Mr O’Malley wouldn’t stop chain-smoking in the parking lot but Clyde never saw him cry. They brought Mr Zimmerman out in a wheelchair and they took him home and fed him bland porridge. 

Clyde drops by their house before lunch, leaving the tending of the bar to Bill. There aren’t a lot of customers this time of the day with everyone still at work, and Mr O’Malley likes it when Clyde comes over for lunch so he can cook for him as well as his husband. 

Clyde enters through the front door, using the spare key like Mr O’Malley told him to because sometimes he was doing yard work in the back and might not hear the doorbell.  
  
Maneuvering around with an armful of groceries while trying to push the door open with his shoulder is a skill Clyde is proud to have mastered, but it’s a skill born of necessity; there are things he had to learn how to do with only one hand, like getting dressed and fixing a whiskey sour.

The living room is empty. Someone has left a bunch of pillows on the sofa and a plate of milk and cookies is still sitting on the coffee table, only half-eaten. Clyde calls out to Mr O’Malley but there’s no answer so he wends his way to the kitchen to unload the food, a pound of fish from Willy’s and some fresh produce, eggs and bread as well as a block of cheese. 

He stores the milk in the fridge, which they still get in glass bottles in these parts, and places everything neatly side by side. There’s food left in Tupperwares and some of it is smelling rank, so he tosses it out into the garbage while leaving everything else untouched: Mr Zimmerman’s mac and cheese and his beef stew, and the vegetarian fried rice that’s supposed to be good for his heart.  
  
Clyde loads the dishwasher with the last of the dirty dishes, pouring himself a glass of lemonade that Mr O’Malley likes to make from powder. He can hear footsteps in the living room, someone’s familiar voice but it’s too soft for Clyde to really pinpoint who it is though he knows for a fact it isn’t Mr O’Malley’s.

He’s putting the grocery bags away when he feels a pair of eyes watching him from the door. He looks up, grocery bags swaddled in his arms, and sure enough there he is: Clyde will recognize those eyes anywhere because it’s the same ones keeping him company in his dreams. It’s Stensland’s.

* * *

“Clyde,” Stensland says, blinking at him. He looks—pretty much the same since Clyde has last seen him, only older and a little bit taller with a fresh bit of stubble. He isn’t gangly anymore though he’s still on the slim side, holding himself with the same lazy posture that the army had managed to drill out of Clyde. 

Stensland lifts his glass of milk he’d been drinking to his lips but misses them entirely and ends up spilling milk all over his shirt, which looks very worn and thin. 

“Shit!” Stensland hisses, hopping from foot to foot and licking milk off his wrist. He makes a beeline for the sink, dumping the rest of his milk down the drain before scrabbling for a paper towel. 

Clyde knows where Mr O’Malley keeps them: he has a stash in the cabinet where the old unused appliances live. He grabs a roll quickly, handing Stensland a wad of tissue paper. 

“Thanks,” Stensland says, mopping milk off his face and shirt. He wets his lip with his tongue, then looks at Clyde with his eyes all haunted as if he’s seen a ghost. He may as well have: Clyde can’t remember the last time they’ve spoken to each other. Except, well, maybe he does and just doesn’t wanna think about it right now.

“Didn’t know you were gonna be home, Stensland,” Clyde says, because that’s the only thing he can think of. For some reason, he too feels haunted, rooted to the spot in terror and clutching at the grocery bags like a real idiot.

“Papa called me home,” Stensland says by way of explanation.He’s still staring.

Clyde is used to people staring at him all the time—at the bar, in the grocery store, at the bank in the ATM line, whenever he goes anywhere outside the county for his yearly drives—but he’s not used to people staring solely at his face. It’s not the first thing they fixate on. Besides, being told he looks menacing and grim, most people don’t have a problem with his face and some people, including his momma, even consider him handsome. Not the way Jimmy is handsome though, who is the kind of guy women tend to go crazy over, but at least handsome enough to warrant a second date. 

Then Stensland’s gaze travels down the length of his arm. The prosthetic is hard to miss so of course Stensland takes notice of it. He wasn’t there when Clyde had been discharged from the army. They had drifted apart so much that the only people who ever came to visit when Clyde was finally allowed to go home were his siblings and Stensland’s parents. And good old Earl who had ended up becoming one of the bar’s best patrons. 

Stensland left fifteen years ago for California and he hadn’t even said goodbye.

“Clyde,” Stensland says softly. 

Clyde feels the phantom ache of his right hand, the missing heft of it. He grits his teeth, working his jaw so he can think real hard about what to say next. He isn’t in therapy anymore, but there are times when he feels like he still needs a shrink as there’s still some residual rage left inside him that he has no use for in his daily life.

Stensland keeps staring at him, and it’s clear he’s dying to ask about the arm. Clyde knows that look, though maybe he doesn’t anymore because it’s been almost fifteen years and so much has changed and they aren’t the same people they used to be when they were kids and wrestling in the leaves. They used to build blanket forts in Stensland’s room because Clyde shared a bedroom with his brother Jimmy, eating candy until they were sick with it, whispering ghost stories to each other under the beam of a flickering flashlight. A lifetime ago now it might as well have been all a dream.

“Oh Clyde! You’re here! Just in time!” Mr O’Malley bursts through the door to break the silence, grabbing the grocery bags from Clydeand stuffing them in strange places. “Was just about to make lunch. How do you feel about spaghetti?”

“I love spaghetti, sir,” Clyde says, because it’s true. He likes the way Mr O’Malley makes it too, just on the right side of spicy and sweet. He’ll have leftovers to take back to the bar for Bill because Mr O’Malley always makes too much and Clyde often suspects he does it on purpose, because he likes feeding Clyde. 

Mr O’Malley glances between the two of them, back and forth before he starts pulling ingredients out of the fridge in an attempt to keep his hands busy. He’s been doing that a lot lately, Clyde has noticed, ever since Mr Zimmerman got back from the hospital. It’s like he simply refuses to stay still. Mellie got the same way when Clyde came back home, wouldn’t shut up about Sadie’s pageants and the outrageous dye job Claire Colburn got the other day or the car she was hoping to take a loan out to buy. It was meaningless chatter to fill the silence. 

People, Clyde knows from learning how to read people back when he was in the army, are afraid of confrontation.

“Stensland came home last night,” Mr O’Malley explains, moving around the kitchen, doing enough clanging and banging that the noise almost diffuses the tension in the room. “Didn’t even call to let me know he was coming home so he had to take the bus.”

Stensland groans, throwing his arms up in frustration. “Papa! I told you! I didn’t want to bother you or dad. I didn’t mind taking the bus! I always take the bus in the city.”

“This kid here never learned how to drive.” Mr O’Malley shakes his head sadly, clicking his tongue in mock resignation. “Which still boggles my mind ten years later…”

Stensland rolls his eyes and accepts the salad bowl Mr O’Malley hands him with a huff. He wipes it with a damp dish rag before setting it down on the counter. “I don’t need to learn how to drive, Papa,” he says. “You know, I can always just take public transport.”

“Not in Boone County, you can’t. To get around here you need a car. This isn’t California. Am I right, Clyde?” Mr O’Malley turns to him, obviously looking for affirmation and Clyde realizes that he too has been staring the entire time, silent during the exchange. 

He shakes himself out of it and clears his throat, feeling suddenly sheepish, like he’s twelve again and Mr O’Malley had just pinched his cheeks and called him a good egg. 

“Yes, Mr’ O’Malley, sir,” he says reflexively.

* * *

Lunch at Stensland’s parents’ house is always great though it’s still a little weird for Clyde to see Mr Zimmerman sitting in his wheelchair, struggling to twirl spaghetti around a fork. He gets a special meal—tomato soup from the leftover tomato sauce— which Mr O’Malley helps him eat, spooning bitefuls into his mouth after blowing, then wiping the corner of his lips with a table napkin. 

Clyde’s parents weren’t as outwardly affectionate as Stensland’s so he’s not used to seeing them touching and murmuring to each other like they’re the only two people in the room. Clyde guesses that’s just what happens to people when they’re married long enough. 

Stensland seems accustomed to it, if not downright embarrassed, glancing at Clyde periodically like he wants to say something or apologize. 

They don’t talk about what they’ve been doing in the last ten years or the places they’ve been. Lunch ends without any casualties because Mr O’Malley seems to know how to expertly steer a conversation away from a potential landmine.

Clyde has to go back to the bar before long anyway and he’s glad that he can use that as an excuse to duck out of dessert (jello pudding from the box topped with whipped cream). There’s no time for chitchat or playing catch up; Clyde flees as soon as he’s finished helping Mr O’Malley with the dishes. 

Stensland walks him out to the driveway, lingering at the door to watch him pull out onto the street. His feet are bare. Clyde remembers running with him as kids in the yard never wearing shoes. 

He rolls down the window and waves.

Stensland takes a sip out of his coffee and waves back. 

* * *

Clyde Logan has mostly forgotten about his former best friend Stensland. He says mostly because a lot happened between the time Stensland left Boone County and then came back without warning fifteen years later like a hailstorm in the middle of summer. There's been a lot of growing up and long stretches of radio silence. After Clyde graduated West Point, he never heard from Stensland again. But he still visits his parents: living in a small town makes it hard for anyone to outrun their ghosts. 

Clyde tries not to think about it during the rest of his shift but it’s like asking a fish not to breathe in water. He can only hold his breath for so long before he’s damn near exploding.

It’s funny that _Duck Tape_ is the go-to place for all the sad sacks in this part of town because that means when Clyde’s the sad sack then he has no other place to go unless he’s willing to drive all the way out to the next county. He leaves the bar to Bill for the second time that day and holes himself up in the back room where the liquor is stored, just so he can get away from everything. 

His therapist taught him some breathing exercises for when things got too overwhelming. He does them now, sitting in his cot, timing his breath until he has calmed down enough and his heart stops pounding like a racehorse.

There’s a knock on the door: Bill pokes his head out a second later. “C-Clyde?” he says carefully. Bill who’s from out of town, always seems nervous around him but Clyde has learned not to take it personally because that’s just the way he is around everybody. 

Customers like Bill because he’s polite and good with names; he always remembers their drinks. On the days he isn’t working—he goes to night school to study computers—people always ask for him. 

Bill fidgets at the door. “There’s someone for you at the bar.”

“Someone? Did they say who?” Bill shakes his head. “It’s all right, don’t worry about it. I’ll be right there in a jiff.”

Clyde rubs a hand over his face a couple times before climbing up to his feet. He puffs out his cheeks, takes another deep breath. Music from the bar is seeping through the thin door, a familiar song he recognizes, something by Patty Griffin on the jukebox.

He steps outside and his heart drops the second he sees Stensland at the bar, wringing his hands and looking around uncertainly. He’s wearing a brown corduroy jacket over what looks like a pajama shirt, his hair a messy tuft around his head like he’d just rolled out of bed. He’s clean shaven now, the stubble from this morning wiped clean from his face.

“Hey,” Stensland says, wiggling his fingers in an awkward wave before taking a sip from his cocktail, fruity and frankly ludicrous-looking because sometimes Bill makes these drinks by request and tries to raise the bar by seeing how ‘fun’ he can make them. 

“Stensland,” Clyde says, astonished. He forgets to breathe again; it takes him half a minute to remember how.

“My parents said you’d be here. Papa dropped me off; said to call when I needed picking up. He also said I was being annoying and needed to get rid of me. _Just after half a day of being home!_ Can you believe it? The utter betrayal!” He twirls the little paper umbrella hanging off the rim of his glass in his hands. Stensland likes to talk a lot; that’s the one thing that seems to be true about him still. Clyde can sense the unease wafting off him from a mile away. 

Still, that doesn’t mean he knows what to say to him. Not yet. Not without Mr O’Malley acting as a buffer for all the things they keep traipsing around. Clyde grabs a dish rag from under the bar and starts wiping the counter top even though Bill always keeps it spic and span. 

Speaking of: he can sense Bill’s gaze on him and how he’s subtly hovering in the background to eavesdrop on their conversation while pretending to look busy.

Well, Clyde is also pretending to look busy even though there are only a handful of guys in tonight: a crowd of them in flannel and cargo shorts and denim jeans and cowboy boots like his Dad used to wear. Clyde wonders what had ever happened to those boots. His dad was an all American Guy, real proud to be from West Virginia, one of those salt of the earth types who liked fixing up cars more than they liked driving them, and he had really known how to ride horses.

Clyde isn’t exactly like these guys in the bar—his family had been middle class enough that he’d never really gotten the chance to become a hick like the rest of them but they’re kin in a way he’s only just realizing.

“So do you really own this bar?” Stensland asks after a moment, looking around once again at anything that isn’t Clyde. “This place is a dump.”

“I know,” Clyde says.

“I was joking,” Stensland tells him. He’s blushing, embarrassed. And Clyde thinks: look at him, embarrassed. For himself or for Clyde? Because yeah this place is a dump, but it’s his dump, and he likes it here, he built it with sweat and bones.

“How’s your drink?” he asks instead.

“Pretty good.” Stensland shrugs. “I mean it’s a Piña Colada, how bad could it be, right? Tastes the same everywhere.”

“Didn’t even know we still had pineapple,” Clyde says.

“Do you happen to know where I can score some premium weed?” Stensland interrupts. Clyde almost doesn’t notice that they’re talking over each other like they’re in a race until there’s an abrupt pause in the conversation. 

“You know. _Marijuana_?” Stensland continues. “The good herb?” 

Clyde eyes him up and down. He doesn’t mean to, just that they’re older now and some things haven’t changed at all even when they were supposed to leave it all behind. “You still smoking that?”

“Keeps me calm. You know, it’s supposed to be medicinal.”

“I guess it’s legal where you live, though isn’t it,” Clyde says slowly. “ _California_.”

“I live in Seattle.”

“Everyone says you live in California,” Clyde says.

Stensland looks at him and laughs. He has a great laugh, Stensland. Clyde loved making him laugh when they were kids because it made him feel funny and not in the other-kids-making-fun-of-him way either but real funny, like he was smart. 

Stensland leans on his elbows on the bar, whispering conspiratorially. “Well, Clyde Logan,” he says. “Everyone is wrong.”

“Is that right,” Clyde says.

“It is,” Stensland nods. “I mean they’re wrong, but that’s right. Right.” He giggles nervously, and Clyde is glad to see that the some of the tension has drained from his shoulders because sometimes Stensland’s whole mood can be infectious. His momma always said that Stensland was such a character, always talking about everything under the sun; he filled up a room like helium filled up a balloon. 

Clyde is starting to understand what his momma meant by that. 

Earl, coming in from the gravel lot, lifts his empty bottle to signal Clyde over to his end of the bar. 

“I’ll be right back,” Clyde tells Stensland, but as soon as he finishes grabbing Earl a fresh Bud Light from the cooler, Stensland has already slipped outside.

* * *

The thing is Clyde isn’t even angry at Stensland for leaving. He understood, even as a kid, that they were going to have to part ways eventually because Stensland was always talking about it, whether it was him going off to college or just in general. He had itchy feet and couldn’t wait to get out of Boone County to start living his life. His real life, he said, not this crummy one at View Valley High with their crappy lunch boxes and old textbooks and their terrible haircuts. 

His dad was a detective, always busy with work, so he went on about the same number of vacations as Clyde’s family, which means to say once every few years.  One time after coming back from trout fishing near Blackwater Falls, bruise-kneed and sporting a nasty-looking wasp bite on one eyelid, he declared he was going to be a fisherman, that he had discovered his calling after all these years. And he was always full of tall dreams like that: Stensland wanted to be everything. An adventurer, a botanist, a jack of all trades, just like his Papa.

Clyde wondered for a long time if Stensland ever dreamed Clyde would be part of his future. He didn’t want to be a fisherman, he was real terrified of water, not of its unknowable depth but of the things that might be living in it, writhing, unimaginable things. But he sometimes imagined living with Stensland in a house by the water. They would fish everyday and eat what the water brought them. It would have been a simple life. The windows of that house would have been filled with flowers, the kind Stensland liked to stop and smell when they were at the park. 

Now that Stensland’s back in Boone County, it’s like Clyde is seventeen again and bumbling his way through a myriad of mixed feelings. 

He bumps into Stensland during one of his morning runs. Literally bumps into him as Stensland leaps out of a nearby bush and accosts him with his arms flailing. Clyde almost has a heart attack and has to physically stop himself from swinging a punch out of reflex. There are things the army teaches you that are harder to switch off than others.

“Stensland. _Jesus_.”

Clyde’s heart is still pounding hard. “What the hell were you doing hiding in those bushes like some creep?”

“I wasn’t hiding!” Stensland protests. “I just saw you running down the street and thought I should say hi! So: hi.”

Clyde shakes his head at him, squatting down on the ground with his elbows on his knees, out of breath like a dog.  
  
“What are you doing ‘round here anyways?” he asks, shaking sweat out of his hair. Stensland’s parents don’t live here. The neighborhood is part of Clyde’s running trail because it’s close to his place by the bar. Him and Jimmy and Mellie decided to sell his parents’ old house after their momma died and use the money to pay off debt and her medical bills.

“I just wanted to check on my old stomping ground,” Stensland grins. “And see whether the Altmans still live here, I guess.”

_Oh._ Then he’s probably looking to score some weed. Phillip Altman had been notorious for peddling the stuff back in high school, running an underground empire. It was almost impressive how he didn’t get caught. But his family had moved a long time ago to Long Island where last Clyde heard Altman Sr had died; they were the only other family who were half-Jewish just like Stensland’s. 

Clyde never liked him though he couldn’t quite put his finger on why.

“They don’t live here anymore, apparently,” Stensland says, like he can intuit what Clyde is thinking. “Nice shorts, by the way,” he adds. “Wow, your legs are _really_ _fucking_ toned. I bet you could carry me over one shoulder like a sack of grain and not even break a sweat. You beefed up in the army, didn’t you? I mean you already had those muscles back in high school but now you look really…” He trails off and his gaze settles on Clyde’s missing hand long enough for Clyde to notice, though he flicks his eyes back up again a moment later. Clyde doesn’t wear the prosthetic when he goes out on his runs as there’s often no one around to see him on account of how early it is. It’s not even five am.  
  
The sun is barely out, the sky still dark; paper boy’s not even up yet so all the doorsteps are empty of today’s newspaper. Everyone in Boone County is still asleep except Clyde who has had trouble sleeping ever since he got back home from Afghanistan. 

And then of course there’s Stensland, eyeing him furtively as they fall into step together.

“Can I run with you?” Stensland asks. 

“You’re wearing sandals, Stens,” Clyde points out, not without a hint of disbelief. He’s wearing pajama pants too and an oversized t-shirt with a strawberry print. “They’re not made for running.”

Stensland shrugs but doesn’t refute that. “You look good though,” he says after a moment and Clyde can’t parse whether or not he’s trying to tease him but his voice is soft in a way that makes him acutely aware of how they’re the only two people on this street, walking side by side with their arms brushing from time to time.  
  
“It’s, it’s good,” Stensland says. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Clyde asks. 

Stensland looks at him and doesn’t answer.

Clyde doesn’t mean to be harsh; it’s a genuine question. Why wouldn’t he be okay? He’s okay most days, doing his best to run a bar that people flock to when they’ve got problems or sometimes just because there’s nothing better to do in this whole damn town. Drinking doesn’t mean forgetting your sorrows; sometimes it’s about celebrating them too.

“You want some breakfast?” Clyde asks, because it doesn’t sit right with him that Stensland is looking sad like that and that it’s probably his fault. “I can whip you up something good if you like. Bar’s not too far from here. I live right next to it.”

Stensland lifts his head. He’s still wary, like he’s waiting for there to be a catch. When none seems to be forthcoming he starts sprinting ahead of Clyde, walking backwards to face him and grinning.  
  
“I love breakfast,” he says like that’s somehow news to Clyde who’s never met anyone who didn’t love breakfast. “My Papa keeps making these utterly bland meals lately because of, you know, _my dad_ and I love them both to death but I’m craving something that’ll give me a premature heart attack. Something greasy and terrible with a ton of calories like—”

“Bacon?” Clyde offers. “I like ‘em real crispy and burnt,” he says, not sure why he’s bringing that up now.

“I know,” Stensland says, and he looks both wistful and regretful all of a sudden, his pace slowing down until he stops dead in his tracks so that Clyde can catch up to him. 

“I remember your mom. She used to make them that way for you,” Stensland says. “I’m sorry about the—I’m sorry she died. I heard from my parents.”

_Cancer_ , Clyde thinks, but he’s no longer broken up about it. That stuff happened a long time ago. It’s part of life, just like everything else. 

* * *

If there’s one thing working in the service industry Clyde has learned it’s that people will disappoint you all the damn time but food will never let you down. The bar is twenty minutes from the Altman’s neighborhood, twice as long when going by foot at a leisurely pace and accompanied by Stensland who keeps lagging behind, stopping to ask questions about the people he used to know who lived in the houses they pass by. 

Clyde has worked up a sweat by the time they get to the bar. He bought a trailer a few years back that he situated on the very lot _Duck Tape_ stood on. He should probably buy a real house but property values had gone up since he was discharged from the army and he already spent half a fortune securing the deed for the land. 

_Duck Tape_ is his pride and joy: he wanted it to feel like an extension of home.

Besides, he doesn’t need a big house when it’s just gonna be him and his books. All a man really needs is a clean, well-lighted place, like old Hemingway said. Nothing more than that, and Clyde has never wanted anything more beyond what he could imagine.

He shows Stensland the trailer, pointing to it right where they stand on the other side of the gravel lot, hands on their hips as the sun begins its slow traipse over the mountains. It’s morning now and the birds are up, trilling their summer song overhead; a couple people pass by them on the street on bicycles.

Clyde shucks off his shoes as soon as he unlocks the door to his trailer, setting them on a rack next to the umbrella stand. Clyde doesn’t like for people to wear shoes in the house, not even in the kitchen, because it tracks stuff in. Jimmy always says he’s being real uptight about it, like their Great Aunt Slyvie who still has plastic covers on her twenty-year-old furniture but Clyde just likes to be neat.

The army taught him to be neat, to tuck his sheets in real tight without a wrinkle and stand with his back straight and his chest up, to look people right in the eye when he was talking to them, along with a list of other things that he doesn’t even think about twice anymore. Being in the army is like being in a different country with its own secret language and laws. 

It’s why Clyde is always careful not to make a mess in his living space. Everything is tucked away where it’s supposed to be and he doesn’t buy things he doesn’t really need, not like Mellie who hoards everything from nail polish to matchbox cars.

Stensland toes off his sandals at the door; he’s got pale feet, white like the underbelly of a fish, long and slim. His ankles too seem delicate, snappable. When they were kids Clyde used to think that Stensland was skinny, that was why his momma tried to fatten him up. But really Stensland is just built differently: long and lean.

Clyde makes them both coffee so Stensland has something to do while he takes the bacon out of the fridge and thaws it under running water. He still has leftover eggs for some pancake batter.

He hears Stensland moving behind him and looks up to see him touching the walls and pretty much anything he can get his hands on: the curtains, which Clyde bought for two dollars from the thrift store, the old cuckoo clock with the missing hour hand that he inherited from his parents’ house before they sold it, the picture on his mantel of when he graduated West Point, his ears big and goofy.

“Your place looks really nice,” Stensland says, rubbing his elbows like he’s cold. “Homey. Love what you’ve done to the place. Very thrift store-chic, you know?” 

“Thanks,” Clyde replies.

Stensland looks around just as Clyde starts whisking eggs in a bowl, using a fork. He doesn’t have any of that fancy stuff like Mellie’s got in her kitchen but so far he’s been getting by without it. There’s something oddly satisfying about making do with what he has. In the army, during survival training, he spent weeks camping in the mountains, wind-burnt and stiff-limbed with other guys who all complained of wanting to go home. Only Clyde didn’t want to go home: he felt more alive there than he had ever felt in his life, learning to fish with his bare hands and which plants were safe to eat and which were poisonous.

Stensland widens his eyes meaningfully at him. “Is it just you in here though or is there…”

“It’s just me,” Clyde interrupts before Stensland gets any funny ideas.

“No girlfriend?” Stensland presses. “Or boyfriend?” he adds, his voice oddly hushed.

“It’s just me,” Clyde says again. He pulls a frying pan out from the drawer and sets it on the stove, pretends to study the pancake box before dumping its contents into the egg mixture.

“You?” he asks into the ensuing silence, scrubbing batter off his hands more vigorously than necessary. 

“Same. It’s just me,” Stensland says. There’s a pause and when Clyde turns to look at him over his shoulder, he finds Stensland slouched at the counter, staring sullenly at the contents of his coffee cup and leaning on one elbow.

“You still like your bacon like you used to or what?” Clyde asks.

Stensland brightens instantly, his face beaming like a shiny new penny. “Chewy and half-cooked?” 

“I mean like rubber,” Clyde says.

“How dare you!” Stensland gasps, aghast, but he’s grinning too, his eyes soft around the corners. “How very dare you Clyde Logan!? You have no right to judge my palate; I’m not the one eating charred strips of coal and calling it breakfast.”

“Now there’ll be none of that backwards talk in this household,” Clyde reminds him, pointing a spatula in his direction. “But I’ll still make you bacon because you’re a guest and I don’t wanna be rude,” he says, in case that wasn’t clear. “And I’ll make it chewy just how you like ‘em.”

“Thanks,” Stensland says. “That’s really sweet.”

Clyde just shrugs. “That’s just how we do it down here in Boone County. We're hospitable folk, in case you forget.”

* * *

Clyde has been in Stensland’s backyard a hundred times, a thousand maybe, too many times to count, even after all these years. Mr Zimmerman and his dad would have cookouts every other summer, back when his dad was still alive, Mr Zimmerman roasting steaks in an apron and shorts and flip-flops, while the rest of the kids Clyde included would bounce around on the trampoline. Until they got too old for that sort of thing and just started helping out at the grill instead, trying to steal beers from the cooler when the adults weren’t looking.

Mr O’Malley invites him to lunch again the following day. Clyde has run out of excuses at this point—Mr O’Malley can smell bullshit from a mile away— and Clyde _does_ miss his cooking, so he mans up and tells Bill he’ll be back in a couple of hours. To hell with it.

Bill waves at him from across the bar counter and tells him good luck. Clyde grits his teeth, hoping that doesn’t jinx it. 

Mr O’Malley is in the kitchen making lunch, the counter cluttered with food and shiny kitchen stuff, while Mr Zimmerman is seated in the corner, newspaper in his lap, just watching him. They look peaceful together, Mr O’Malley with his frenetic energy banging pots and pans and his husband in his wheelchair, just humming along to whatever it is he’s saying. 

Clyde ducks out when Mr O’Malley banishes him to the yard because lunch will take at least half an hour more and Clyde has arrived early. Clyde can see Stensland hanging up the laundry, sheets and jeans and towels piled high and smelling sweetly of fabric softener and fresh air. 

There’s a sagging line draped with towels hanging perilously low to the ground. 

Stensland’s feet are bare, his toes stark white against the long green grass.

“Hey,” Stensland says, squinting at him before scratching his ass. “You again.”

“Hi,” Clyde says. He hunkers down on the lawn chair next to the kiddie pool with leaf-blown water in it, cracking open a beer that Mr O’Malley slipped discreetly into his hand. 

“Need help with that or?”

“Nah, I’ve got it. I’m all right. You just sit there and drink your beer.”

Stensland finishes hanging up everything and then joins him under the shade. It’s a mild morning, the breeze curling the hair on the back of Clyde’s neck. Stensland disappears for a second, returning with a glass of peach iced tea in hand, which he drinks from through a pink plastic straw. 

Clyde can smell it wafting over to him. 

They share a toast, Stensland spilling iced tea on his lap and laughing it off. “You know I thought coming home was going to be a nightmare,” he says, sucking thoughtfully at the lemon rind hanging off his glass. “I just hated it here so much.”

Clyde gives him a sidelong look, considering. “You still hate it here?”

“I mean, yeah,” Stensland huffs. “I mean look at my parents’ house. Look at the neighborhood. Nothing much has changed, really, since I left. I’m surprised you even came back after…”  
  
_West Point._ Stensland means West Point. After graduating from the academy, Clyde never saw him again. He heard stories from Stensland’s parents but they were ever changing. He doesn’t even know what Stensland has been up to all those years. Allegedly, he went to California to study art, not that it was any of his business, but it would’ve been nice if he had called or sent a postcard or at least let him know that he was still alive. Clyde had sent him a dozen letters that all went unanswered. From New York, from Afghanistan. He stopped when Mr O’Malley said even he had trouble locating Stensland. It was like he was trying his best to disappear.

“So you goin’ back to California after all this?”

Stensland nods. “I’m staying for another two weeks until my Papa has calmed down a little. I think he’s still in shock about my dad. For some reason he just won’t stop cooking.” He lets out a frustrated noise. “Did you know I gained three pounds since I got here? Three pounds! And I never gain weight.” He pats his belly with a rueful smile.

“He’s just glad you’re home again, Stens.”

“Well, what about you?” Stensland asks and Clyde knows he’s just teasing but it rubs him the wrong way. It’s like they’re teenagers again and Stensland is talking about the girls he wants to kiss. These are the stupid insecurities of his childhood. He shouldn’t still be letting Stensland make him feel uncertain and miserable.

“Aren’t you glad to see me at all?” Stensland asks. 

“Well, what do you want me to say, Stensland?” Clyde’s chest is hot, and his grip on his beer is way too tight. “Course I’m happy. You were my best friend. It’s always nice to see an old friend.”

“So _were,_ as in past tense…”

Clyde looks at him. _Of course as in past tense_ , he thinks but doesn’t say. “You know you might not have noticed it but a lot has changed out here since you left. Fifteen years is an awful long time.”

“I know,” Stensland says a little more firmly, the dopey edges of his smile melting off like ice cream in the sun. “That’s why I’m going back home to Seattle in two weeks.”

* * *

Alcohol doesn’t always make things better but it’s what the people keep coming back for so there really must be some merit to it. Clyde may own a bar but he’s not as big of a drinker as Jimmy who got into the bottle way earlier than he did. Jimmy always makes fun of him for it, says what good is a bar if you don’t enjoy a shot of whiskey once in a while but you can’t tend bar when you’re drunk and puking your guts out now can you; someone has to stay sober to clean up everyone’s messes. 

Clyde is that person. He has been for a long time. 

Tonight it’s just the usual folks trickling in late from work so he lets Billy do inventory in the back and whatever the hell he likes. He got a new cell phone recently, one of those fancy types with the huge screen that didn’t have any buttons on it, and Clyde always sees him during the off-peak hours typing away or giggling at something he read. 

The night is almost boring, but boring doesn’t always have to be a bad thing, because then at least Clyde knows what to expect. He does the Sunday crossword at the bar, making idle chat in between pouring drinks and wiping up beer spills from the counter. He’s taking out the trash when he hears a strange noise and goes to investigate.

Clyde has wrangled his fair share of troublemakers over the years, young folks who had too much to drink and were looking for an outlet for their boredom and rage. He almost doesn’t recognize the center of the commotion until he steps out onto the gravel lot and squints. 

It’s Stensland, circled by a couple of guys in oversized shirts and pants. There’s a ziplock bag on the ground full of stuff Clyde suspects must be weed because he wasn’t born yesterday and he’s not a stranger to these things. 

The guys outweigh Stensland by about fifty pounds each and he doesn’t like how close they’re standing. Clyde has been in his share of fights—both schoolyard and fistfights in the army when tension got high— and this doesn’t look like a fair one to him. 

All three of them look up when Clyde approaches, his hands raised, palm-up to demonstrate he comes in peace. “Everything all right here?” he asks.

“They thought I was a prostitute!” Stensland screeches. “A man of ill repute!”

Clyde looks at the guys for confirmation. 

“They were going to solicit sexual favors,” Stensland says, looking teary. His lips shine with spit under the light of the street and Clyde feels a stab of guilt for noticing that when it isn’t the appropriate time. Stensland scrambles over to Clyde’s side but not before making a grab for the bag on the ground and stuffing it under his jacket.

“You’re so fucken weird,” one of the guys — Clyde will call him Mullet— says. “He was bein’ all flirty and makin’ these jokes. Guy was ready to get on his knees and suck dick for weed.”

Stensland just hunches his shoulders and shrugs when Clyde turns to him for an explanation.

“I think you two should leave,” Clyde says. For a second he’s expecting them to put up a fight or protest but he’s lucky. Most people are smart enough to know not to mess with him. It’s his face, mostly, always so serious his momma says, and the fact he has two hundred pounds of pure muscle. Finally after giving Stensland a long look, Mullet and his friend Mutton huff and walk away.

“Yeah!” Stensland says, raising a fist in their direction, peeking over Clyde’s shoulder. “You tell them Clyde!”

Mullet glances at them over his shoulder and shakes his head. “One-armed freak,” he mutters. “Go suck on each other’s balls.”

Clyde feels Stensland stiffen behind him. “ _Excuse me?_ Did you say something?”

  
Mullet gives him a disbelieving look. “I didn’t say nothin’.”

“No, I think you did. I think you called my friend here a bad word. What do you think, Clyde?” Stensland asks, turning to catch Clyde’s eye.

Clyde just stares at all of them, confused. He’s heard every insult under the sun after he lost his hand and that’s not even in the top ten of the worst things he’s been called. It’s frustrating but it doesn’t bother him nearly as much as it once did. Stensland doesn’t know that because he had been gone for a while and now this idiot picked a fight with him, and the glint in Stensland’s eyes tells Clyde that he is going to take him up on it. 

Stensland may look like a pushover in his corduroy jacket and Jesus sandals but he stood up for Clyde before, even when he was outweighed and outnumbered by others. People thought Clyde was protecting him from bullies in school when really it was the other way around.

“Look, man, it didn’t mean anything,” the guy says, rolling his eyes, and Stensland must not like how he’s snickering, punching his friend lightly on the shoulder so that they’re both snickering, because a second later, Stensland smacks him in the face with his fist.  
  


Then Stensland starts howling in pain, jumping up and down, and it’s a full blown fight two against one, Mullet and Mutton ganging up on him while he is crumpled on the ground, hugging his body to shield it from the oncoming blows.

Clyde has always been a proponent of peace. There’s always room to talk, in his opinion, but something violent and ugly rears its head inside him when he sees Stensland getting the shit kicked out of him. Something he’s kept hidden even in the army, like a tightly clenched fist.

He grabs Mutton by the back of his shirt, whirling him around so that he can punch him in his ugly mug. Mutton starts whimpering, blood trickling down his nostrils in rivulets. When Clyde lets go, Mutton launches himself at him, attempting to tackle him but barely making him budge. Clyde takes Mutton’s head and slams it against the side of a car that’s been parked on the lot for months. 

And then there’s his friend Mullet who punches Clyde while his back is turned and then shouts at the pain. He swings a fist blindly, managing to land a blow to Clyde’s jaw before shouting again.

At his most cruel and relentless, fighting with Clyde can be like picking a fight with a tank that deflects everything you’ve got and then retaliates with a crushing blow. People may call him a sweetheart, but he doesn’t take shit. People who do that don’t last very long in the army, anyway.

Clyde yanks Mullet by the front of his shirt and then shoves him to the ground where he pisses himself in fright before clamoring to get away. 

Mutton spits: “Freak!” before hightailing it out of there, hot on Mullet’s heels.

When Clyde gingerly presses his tongue to his lower lip, there’s a fresh spark of pain. He wipes away the blood with the heel of his palm, then turns to check on Stensland who’s still on the ground, writhing in pain like he’s doing a particularly moving interpretative dance. 

In his arms, nestled tight, is the bag of weed.

Clyde has to fight off a wave of disappointment but he also can’t help but think that this is frankly ridiculous. He hasn’t gotten into a fist fight since that time in Toledo with the guy who called him a ‘fag’ as he was on the way to the john, fresh out of the army. And now he’s gotten into a fight again. For Stensland. Over a bag of weed.

Clyde squats down so that they’re on eye-level with each other and then cups Stensland’s badly bruised face without meaning to. His cheek is warm in Clyde’s palm and Stensland whimpers but leans into the touch. His left eye is already pinched shut, reminding Clyde of that time they played near the river and Stensland had accidentally uncovered a wasp nest and ended up stung and running around like a chicken with its head cut off before tripping over a rock.

“You look like a bruised fruit,” he tells Stensland.

“Well, you’re bleeding too, you know.” Stensland lifts his fingers to Clyde’s lips, a fleeting touch that makes both of them jerk away. 

_It’s fine_ , Clyde tells himself. _It’s nothing._

Clyde gets to his feet, and holds his hand out for Stensland, the good one that he hasn’t lost. “Let’s get you cleaned up,” he says. 

Stensland lets Clyde pull him up to his feet. 

* * *

Clyde has a first aid kit stashed away in his bathroom cabinet because there’s never a day that goes by that someone doesn’t start a bar fight. Most of the time it’s just general rowdiness and the only ones that end up getting hurt are the ones caught in the crossfire. Clyde has no choice but to play medic from time to time, patching them up before sending the guys back home to their wives. 

  
Then there had been the little accidents when he was still trying to get used to the prosthetic. He’d bumped and bumbled his way so often there had been a fresh bruise everyday, some of them self-inflicted.

He digs through the bathroom cabinet for his supplies, along with a bottle of pain medication for Stensland’s eye that’s already swelling. Clyde can feel the tightness in his jaw where the blow landed, but it’s negligible, he’s trained to take pain. 

Stensland sits on the sofa while Clyde shines a flashlight to his eyes to check for any signs of a concussion. 

He turns the flashlight off with a satisfying snick. “So far so good.”

Stensland blinks, scrunching his face after the examination.

Clyde stares at him, ignoring the urge to swallow. After a few seconds, he shifts his focus and concentrates on slowly applying the butterfly tape over Stensland’s left eyebrow.

It’s easy for Clyde to steal quick glances at his lashes, the freckles that echo over his cheeks before fading away. His skin is warm under Clyde’s hands and Clyde remembers the last time they were this close: back in his car in high school while it rained outside like tinsel.

Clyde cleans the blood off with a sterilized cotton pad, then pokes at the wound, making Stensland whine and bat at his hand. “Ow! Was that really necessary?”

“You were being real quiet. I thought you’d gone comatose.”

Stensland sticks his tongue out before folding his legs underneath him and hugging a pillow. “You sure as hell know how to throw a punch, don’t you?” he says after a moment, just as Clyde takes a slab of frozen meat from the freezer to press against his throbbing face. 

Stensland huffs. “Right. You were in the army. How could I forget.”  
  
He shifts on the sofa, and Clyde can see him curling his toes through the worn cotton of his mismatched socks, his big toe peeking out of a hole. “What was it like in the army?”

Clyde stops to consider the answer. No one has asked him that in a long time; most people ask about the hand because they want a good story. Being in the army isn’t nearly as interesting as losing a limb, he guesses. 

Clyde tosses Stensland the piece of frozen meat which he doesn’t even try to catch so it just lands on the floor between them. “I thought you were gonna catch that,” he says flatly.

“Well, sorry I missed my cue! There was no lead up to it! Suddenly there was beef being hurled at me for no reason.”

“It’s supposed to help with the swelling,” Clyde explains.

Chastised, Stensland picks it up and holds it against his face where the bruising is the worst. It’s going to look even nastier tomorrow but by then the pain should have subsided. 

His parents are going to kill Clyde. And then Clyde remembers they’re not kids anymore and Stensland is accountable for his own actions. So: Mr O’Malley is going to kick his ass instead and be really disappointed. And once Mr Zimmerman gets better, him too.

Clyde sighs and takes the empty spot next to Stensland on the sofa. There’s nowhere else to sit. He doesn’t have guests over often, just Mellie or Jimmy and not even both at the same time so all his furniture is just suited for one person. It’s been great, especially after he lost his hand and he was trying to navigate his new life sans a limb. There were only a few things to keep track of in the trailer and even less to potentially drop.

“I liked being in the army,” Clyde says, watching Stensland watch him back. He’s never voiced this fact out loud and now that it isn’t a secret anymore, it feels like something he needs to get off his chest. “It was nice to feel like you were part of something big. Like you could maybe make a difference.”

“Did they make you do a thousand pushups? I heard that’s what they do. Is that how you got so big?”

“Can you ever, just for once in your life, take anything seriously Stens?” Clyde’s voice rises. He shouldn’t get this frustrated, not when Stensland has provoked him worse over the years. Clyde is a calm person, slow to anger and quick to forgive but it seems that Stensland just keeps bringing out the worst in him tonight, proving him wrong on both accounts. Because yes, there’s a little resentment in it too, rising to the fore after years of him keeping it long buried: Stensland is just sitting there in his living room, _in his house_ , after fifteen years of radio silence, looking at him like nothing has changed with eyes so green it breaks his heart.

Clyde may have forgiven him for leaving, but he’ll never forget the way Stensland’s voice had turned cold the second Clyde told him he was going to West Point. The one important decision in his life and Stensland couldn’t even be happy for him.

Stensland visibly flinches away, curling his shoulders inward, like he’s trying to disappear into the armrest of the sofa. “I was just joking. Geez, where’s your sense of humor? Lighten up.”

“How am I supposed to explain to your parents that you got into a fight with your weed dealer?” Clyde asks, and though his voice is low out of resignation, there’s still a hard edge to it, sharp like glass. 

Stensland responds by slamming the frozen meat down on the coffee table with such force it rattles Clyde’s reading lamp.  
  
“ _Then don’t,_ ” he says tightly. “They don’t need to know. I’ll make up a story. You don’t have to cover my arse all the time. I’m not twelve anymore, Clyde.”

“You may not be, but you know you’re acting like it sometimes, Stens.”

Stensland’s gaze turns hard and cold. “You have no right to say that to me. _You don’t even know me._ ”

“You’re right,” Clyde says. “I don’t.”

There are so many things Clyde wants to add to that but he leaves it well alone and just sighs and scrubs his face. He goes to forage for the last glass of orange juice from the fridge, disappointed when he remembers he drank it all this morning.

“Look, the weed wasn’t for me, okay?” Stensland says behind him, and Clyde looks only because Stensland sounds so small and pitiful, his breath broken up by soft hitches. “It’s for my Papa. I thought it’d be a nice little gift because he’s so stressed out about my dad. He doesn’t even sleep. Do you know he’s always up till three in the morning cooking? He keeps asking me to fix the WiFi on his home computer because he wants to do research on stroke patients. You’d think he wanted to become a doctor.” 

Stensland tips his head back against the sofa, letting out a noise of frustration. 

Clyde thinks about that morning in Phillip Altman’s neighborhood when Stensland had materialized out of a bush and nearly killed him with shock. So it was a weed run. He shouldn’t have been wandering around at four in the morning

“Believe it or not, I’m trying to take care of my parents the best I can,” Stensland says. “I don’t have any money. I still need to pay my roommate back for the plane ticket I bought to get here. My Papa hasn’t sat still since my dad got back from the hospital and I’m a little worried about him. Well, I’m worried about them both; they seem fine on the outside but… they don’t have anyone else but each other in that house.”

Clyde stands there with the fridge door wide open. He shuts it with a gentle nudge. “Sorry,” he says, and wishes it didn’t come out sounding rote because he’s actually real genuinely sorry.

“No, you’re right,” Stensland laughs, wiping at his cheeks and sniffing. “I’m a mess. I’m a total fucking mess.”

“I never said that, Stens.”

“No, but I see the way you look at me,” Stensland says. 

Clyde has to turn again so he’s not just staring at the back of Stensland’s head. He yanks the fridge door open in lieu of anything better to do, his grip white-knuckled on the handle. He stares at the contents of his vegetable drawer: just a few overripe tomatoes that need throwing out and the massage roller he likes to store in there so that it’s cool when he works it down the sore muscles of his left arm, whenever it is cramped from notching the straps of his prosthetic too tight. He has the tendency to do that, sometimes even on purpose.

“You want a soda or anything?” he says, after a moment. “Or a beer?”

“I’m fine,” Stensland replies.

Clyde doesn’t even have beer in his fridge; he keeps all the liquor in the bar because it’ll be hard to keep track of how many he’s had when he’s in one of his moods. He rarely gets into said moods anymore but it’s better to be on the safe side. Just imagining the look on Jimmy’s face when he finds him passed out on the sofa cradling a bottle of gin is enough to deter him from ever keeping that stuff in his house. 

Stensland goes back to picking at his black eye, even though he shouldn’t. But then again when did he ever not do what he wasn’t supposed to? Clyde checks the time on the clock. He knew it was late when he left the bar, but he didn’t think he could lose so much time just patching Stensland up and having this conversation.

“I need to close up,” Clyde tells Stensland, grateful he has a legitimate excuse to leave. He’s not a coward, never has been, he doesn’t think. He was his drill sergeant’s favourite because he did everything without complaint, his faith in the army immoveable like stone until it wasn’t.

He stands in the doorway, one foot already on the threshold. “I’ll be right back,” he says but Stensland just shrugs and doesn’t even spare him a look.

* * *

Unfortunately, Clyde doesn’t get to make good on his promise because someone has left puke in the men’s room and Billy needs help kicking the last of the stragglers out during closing. 

Billy doesn’t inquire about Clyde’s split lip because he knows when not to ask questions.

They lock up without further incident, same as usual and Clyde says goodbye to Bill who pulls the hood of his yellow hoodie over his ears before clambering onto his bike and heading home, the bells on his bike getting fainter and fainter the further down the street he goes.

When he’s all alone, Clyde jogs across the gravel lot to his trailer, heart heavy in his chest as he cautiously pushes the door open. All the lights are still on in the living room, including the ones in the kitchen, and it looks like Stensland hasn’t left yet. He’s on the sofa, deeply asleep. The sight makes something move through Clyde, a feeling that’s as old as it’s familiar.

Stensland twitches, and nearly falls off the sofa but unconsciously catches himself just in time and buries his face deeper into the cushions. The slab of meat sits thawing on the coffee table, forgotten and puddling water. 

Clyde locks the door behind him, stepping out of his shoes and placing them neatly on the rack. He sits there for a long time on his knees, filled with a strange sense of calm and stillness. The only feeling he can compare it to is when he’d taken to the road for the first time, his first year out of West Point: driving by the dark waters of the Hudson, smooth and ancient, and entire mountains bright with foliage rolling upwards towards the sky; and his throat closing up because he’s never known freedom before, not like that with a road unfurling ahead, bright and open. He’d been young then; stupid. 

Clyde throws the keys to the bar into a bowl waiting by the kitchen counter, surprised when the sound barely makes Stensland stir. He’s gonna get a crick in his neck if he continues to lie on the sofa like that—it barely fits Mellie and she’s shorter than him— so Clyde picks him up and carries him to the bedroom with little effort, though he almost trips on Stensland’s left sandal that is just lying around for some reason, missing a pair.

Clyde uses his shoulder to push the door open but doesn’t even bother with the lights. He can walk through his bedroom in the dark because it’s tiny and he’s familiar enough with its layout. 

When he lowers Stensland on the bed, Stensland moans but otherwise doesn’t blink his eyes open.  
  
Light from the porch outside cuts diagonal lines of fluorescent across the bed, and it spills across Stensland’s face. His hair is all mussed at the top, like he’s been tossing and turning, his lips chapped like he’s been chewing on them in his sleep. Stensland used to wear a mouthguard to bed when they were kids and the only reason Clyde knew about it was because he spent so many nights sleeping over. He would wake up in the middle of the night to Stensland gritting his teeth in his sleep. Eventually he had to get braces.

Stensland looks utterly exhausted now, with his forehead all screwed up in thought. _Jesus_ , Clyde thinks with a pang of deep sympathy. He looks like he really needs the sleep.

Stensland sighs once before rolling onto his side. Clyde covers him with a blanket, tucking the edges into the corners neatly. He reaches out to touch his fingers to Stensland’s hair, before thinking better of it and clenching his fist. Then he shakes his head, at Stensland, at himself. “You’re a real piece of work you know that?” he says before he lets himself out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

Clyde goes to the john, brushes his teeth, strips down to his underwear. Normally, that’s what he sleeps in. He can’t sleep naked like some people because it makes him worry: what if there’s a fire or something?

On the sofa, he punches his pillow. Once, twice. Three times for good luck. He stares at the ceiling for a long time, listens to the rhythmic drone of insects and birds outside, then falls asleep with his mouth open.

* * *

Jimmy finds him on his stomach on the sofa. Sometimes Clyde regrets ever giving Jimmy a spare key because he often likes to show up with no rhyme or reason like he’s afraid Clyde will off himself if he doesn’t get his routine visit from his big brother.

Jimmy now lives in Lynchburg where he’s closer to his daughter so the visit comes as a surprise. He hasn’t seen him since Easter when they’d taken Sadie to the Boone County Fair to go ride horses and bob for apples. 

Clyde scrubs at his face and glares at him through blurry eyes after the fifth time he’s poked him on the shoulder. “What are you doing here Jimmy?” he grunts.

“Don’t I even get a good morning?” Jimmy lifts his mug of coffee in an approximation of a salute, straddling a chair he’d dragged backwards from the kitchen to the living room. “Come on now, I’m your big brother. Where’s my hug?”

Clyde waves him off because it’s too early for that nonsense. His back twinges because the sofa isn’t made for sleeping on it. He’s thirty-four going on thirty-five, his body isn’t what it used to be, like back in the army. Also there was the whole kerfuffle last night. Clyde clenches his eyes shut and groans when it comes back to him.

“Why you sleepin’ out here huh?” Jimmy asks suspiciously, eyeing him head to toe and then back again when he sits up groggily. “You got someone over or somethin’?”

“Nope,” Clyde says. Then he thinks about his answer carefully. “ _Or somethin’._ ”

“Oh.” Jimmy’s grin grows exponentially and Clyde isn't sure whether he likes it or not. He knows that look, almost hates it as much as his _cauliflower_ face which is a word that never fails to make Clyde’s blood run cold on account of all the stupid hijinks Jimmy has convinced him to be an accomplice in at the mention of that word. 

“Did my little brother get lucky last night? Did he finally bring someone home?”

Clyde grimaces. Sometimes Jimmy’s exuberance is exhausting. “Not exactly.”

Jimmy hums, not quite believing him. Then he switches gears. “Yeah, you look like shit. What happened to your face? You got into a fight?”

Clyde shrugs. It’s too early for all these questions and he’s not properly awake yet to play this game. He knows why Jimmy’s doing it: he legitimately cares about Clyde’s wellbeing but sometimes he can get pretty annoying about it. He doesn’t want another repeat of Clyde’s worst depressive episode where he fucked off to god knows where and then came back months later with a broken nose and a few missing teeth.

“Things got a little wild last night with the…” Jimmy trails off, probably hoping Clyde will ply him with all the sordid details if he gives him enough encouragement.

When Clyde chooses to ignore him, Jimmy sighs and drains the rest of his coffee.  
  
“How are you these days?” he asks, which is what Clyde prefers over all this dillydallying: curt, straightforward. No bullshitting around.

Clyde is about to respond—the same answer he always gives when he gets these impromptu visits— when the bedroom door opens and Stensland stumbles out. His face in the light of the morning looks even worse than last night, his eye puffy and shut halfway. Clyde put him to bed with a shirt on but it is missing. Clyde can see the bruises purpling Stensland’s ribs, nasty-looking and yellow around the edges. The narrow taper of his waist isn’t all that surprising, he’s a skinny guy, but the soft roll of his belly is.

Stensland hadn’t mentioned anything about being hurt anywhere but his face. Clyde feels guilty for not asking even though he couldn’t have known.

Jimmy, without missing a beat, says, “Now that’s one hell of a shiner.” 

Stensland stops in his tracks at his voice, raking a hand over his face and groaning. 

“Stensland?” Jimmy says in recognition. He shoots up from his seat and laughs. “Stensland O’Malley-Zimmerman? What the heck are you doing here? I haven’t seen you in years!”

“Jimmy?” Stensland huffs in disbelief. He looks at Clyde, then back at Jimmy before grinning and making a face of pain, muttering _shit_ under his breath. 

Jimmy hugs him; he’s a big hugger and it’s a thing people do in these parts when they haven’t seen a friend in a long time. Clyde hasn’t hugged Stensland yet and he wonders if he ever will, not that he’s thinking about it or wanting to: there’s so much water under the bridge that it just keeps on flowing. Soon that shit’s just gonna drown them both.

“Still playing for the big leagues?” Stensland asks Jimmy when he pulls back and gives him enough berth to appraise him.

Jimmy points to his knee brace, grin diminishing by a few degrees. “Nah. Traded all that for a career in customer service. I work at a Lowes down in Lynchburg. You should come by if you ever need to get your house remodeled. We sell appliances too; better business than that Home Depot.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Stensland laughs.

Even years later, Clyde still marvels at how easily Jimmy gets along with anybody, which is a skill he has yet to master, even after a stint in the army and running a bar for five years. It’s not that he’s shy around people; just that he likes to think about what he’s gonna say first before he says it. Less hurt feelings that way though lately it seems he’s been running his mouth around Stensland. Maybe that’s just the effect Stensland has on people, or on Clyde specifically; like touching fire to propane and then a second later _boom!_ His guts go exploding.

Jimmy takes him and Stensland to the mobile clinic where his girlfriend Sylvia works as a doctor, so they can get their injuries looked at. Clyde drives convoy behind Jimmy and they park about a block away from where the clinic is docked, braving the bright blue expanse of sky beating down on them. 

The neighborhood used to be the center of activity before everything was moved uptown where they built a mall and a Starbucks. All the businesses are boarded up in plywood, nothing but a few struggling gift shops and a restaurant Clyde used to go for the best chili in town because it reminded him of his momma’s. It looks a lot like a ghost town, all scraggly weeds sprouting up from the cracks on the ground and empty cement lots. 

“Where’s your brother taking us?” Stensland asks, squinting in the sunlight like a little lost bird. “This looks like the opposite of good. Shit, I forgot how hot it gets here. My pale pasty complexion is mourning.”

“Here,” Clyde says, throwing his baseball hat with the NASCAR logo at him. . “Put this on and you’ll be fine.”

Sylvia gives them both a stare down before whistling and shaking her head. She’s a great lady, with the shortest haircut Clyde has ever seen on a woman in Boone County and the daintiest pair of pearl earrings. Oftentimes Clyde gets nervous around doctors because they like to ask him a ton of questions that make him feel like he shouldn’t even be at the hospital getting himself checked, but Sylvia isn’t like that at all; she’s funny and kind and doesn’t use big words. It’s only a matter of time before Jimmy asks her to marry him; it’s been years and he’s just about over Bobbie Jo.

“Now what have you been up to Clyde Logan? I thought you put your life of crime behind you?” Sylvia plants her hands on her hips at the sight of them. “And who’s this? Did you two get into a fight?”

“I’m Stensland.” Stensland waggles his eyebrows before taking Sylvia’s hand in his but she pulls away before he has the opportunity for any funny business, gesturing for him to take a seat in the patient’s chair.

“Calm down, Romeo. I’m already taken. Now can you tell me what happened to your face?”

Stensland blushes and pretends to be interested in a container of cotton swabs. He flirts with her the entire time during his checkup and it’s harmless and done mostly in jest —Stensland talks a lot when he’s nervous— but Clyde doesn’t feel like standing around and listening to it.

He leaves them to it and steps outside, hunkering down on the little curb tracing the edge of the street where the asphalt is grey and faded.

A few straggling weeds have shot up through the cracks. He wonders how long it took for it to get like this. Five years? Ten? Even though it isn’t that hot out for July, he can see little heat waves shimmering off the ground, like the pavement is baking.

He rests his elbows on his knees, ducking his head between them and almost falls asleep. 

He looks up when a shadow looms over him, blocking out the sun. It’s Stensland with fresh stitches over his eyebrow that look like they hurt. “What are you doing? Don’t you want to be inside where there’s air-conditioning? You’re going to burn out here.”

Clyde is used to extreme weather; he aced his SERE training. Stensland rolls his eyes and mutters “yeah, yeah” as if he’s said that last bit out loud. And maybe he has. “I know you were in the army, Clyde, but that’s no reason to be torturing yourself all the time.”

Clyde doesn’t know what he means by that. 

“Come on. Up you go.” Stensland takes Clyde by the forearm and yanks him up to his full height, grunting. Clyde lets him, he’s too heavy for Stensland anyway, a bit woozy from the heat without his hat which Stensland is still wearing.

“I never thanked you for last night,” Stensland says, leaning against the warm metal of the mobile clinic van, and then staring at his own shadow on the ground. “You’re always saving my arse. Even when we were kids.”

That’s not strictly true. Stensland did some saving too, just that there was less opportunity for him because Clyde tried his best to stay on the path of the straight and narrow. Most of the time it worked. Some of the time the streak was ruined by Jimmy’s harebrained cauliflower schemes. 

“My momma always said redheads were a whole lotta trouble,” Clyde says. “And she was right. Oh boy was she right.”

Stensland smiles softly , glancing up at him and then looking away before he starts laughing.

Clyde smiles. Been awhile since he heard that sound. He used to dream about it, sleeping on sand and stone in the desert tundra, his lips wind-chapped and every muscle in his body aching. He used to dream about it but then he used to dream about Stensland too though it was nothing he could remember afterwards, just vague shapes of feelings that made him tired with longing the morning after and wanting to go home.

“We got along though, didn’t we?” Stensland says after a long moment. “When we were kids.” 

His voice has gone quiet, like he’s in deep thought. Clyde used to be able to tell what Stensland was thinking; it wasn’t all that hard because they were best friends, attached at the hip, and Stensland had always worn his heart out on his sleeve.

Clyde tries to get a read on him but Stensland is giving him nothing. “We got along like a house on fire,” he agrees.

The door to the van slides open with a pneumatic hiss, jarring them back to reality and pulling them back from this precipice neither of them seem ready to face. Jimmy pokes his head out and motions for Clyde to come up.  
  
“Well, don’t keep the good doctor waitin’,” he rolls his eyes. “You know she don’t have all day.”

Stensland elbows Clyde in the side to jolt him into motion before pushing himself off the side of the van by his elbows. Then he takes his NASCAR hat off and places it on Clyde’s head, lopsided. The smell of it is familiar, and then Clyde realizes that’s the smell of Stensland’s old shampoo. Sweet and syrupy, like freshly picked strawberries; he thought they stopped production but apparently not. 

Clyde pats Clyde on the arm before flicking the brim of his hat so he can peer directly into his face and grin.

“If she asks you to take your pants off for a tetanus shot, _run_.”

* * *

Clyde survives Stensland’s parents’ interrogation. There’s something about being in that house, in that neighborhood, that makes Clyde devolve into a stuttering idiot. He’s not a kid anymore, anxiously toeing the carpet while getting a stern telling-to, but it feels that way sometimes being around Mr O’Malley and Mr Zimmerman.

He’s always respected Stensland’s parents and thought it was cool how two men said fuck you to a whole county and raised a son together like it was no big deal. It wasn’t, but some folk had a few things to say about it and they just let it slide off their back like a dog shaking off fleas, and that was the amazing part, how neither of them took shit from anybody.

They loved Stensland like the world; they doted on him, gave him everything he wanted. It’s probably why he acted like such a brat sometimes and got away with it. 

Clyde would hear stories of when Stensland was younger and how the only thing that made him stop crying was a lick of gin on the tip of his baby bottle. Of course, that was probably just Mr O’Malley pulling his leg—he was always full of unbelievable stories like that; people said he used to be some sort of criminal or thief—but it didn’t seem far from the realm of possibility.

When Clyde met Stensland for the first time, he asked him if he knew how to pick a lock, and whether he thought Batman and Robin were just good friends or if there was something more going on between them. Clyde thought he was a really unique kid for a lack of a better term and then Stensland said he liked _The Hobbit_ and that his favourite character was Gandalf. Then the rest was history and they had been inseparable since. Well, up until a certain point.

Mr O’Malley has baked a sponge cake—vegan and sugarless, tastes like nothing— and manages to convince Jimmy and Clyde to stay the afternoon since it’s Sunday and everything is closed anyway. 

They sit in the yard, sipping beers, with their feet in the kiddie pool, the water only ankle-deep but cool enough to be refreshing. Mr O’Malley is cutting Mr Zimmerman’s hair on the back porch because, he said, the lighting was better outside and the fresh air would do his husband a world of good.

  
Mr Zimmerman doesn’t talk much on account of having had a stroke. His head is tilted a little to the side and Clyde wonders whether that’s because of the stroke too. He heard it was pretty bad; Mr O’Malley found him on the bathroom floor just as they were heading to bed.

Clyde can hear the _snip snip_ of scissors in the background interspersed with Mr O’Malley playing slow rock on a portable radio, something by _The Eagles_ that he doesn’t know the words to.

Meanwhile Stensland is sitting on the porch steps, flipping through an old comic book. He’s wearing oversized cargo shorts and a singlet that shows off his reed-thin arms. He hasn’t spoken a word all afternoon because he’s still in a sulky mood. Mr O’Malley had set him aside and they had a long discussion afterwards that everyone including Mr Zimmerman could awkwardly hear from the next room.

“There you go!” Mr O’Malley says brightly, causing everyone to look at him. He’s finished giving Mr Zimmerman a haircut; it doesn’t look too bad, just that it doesn’t seem symmetrical. Clyde can’t put his finger on where it’s gone wrong. He squints and tips his head to the side. Still wrong. No matter what angle: wrong.

Mr Zimmerman grunts and huffs but when his husband shows him his new look, handing him a water-spotted hand mirror, he doesn’t even seem all that fazed. “It looks…” he says, wheezy. “It looks great, honey.”

Clyde blinks. They share a knowing look that makes him tamp down a smile, then he goes back to watching Stensland from the corner of his eye, pretending he doesn’t see Mr Zimmerman press a tender kiss to the corner of his husband’s mouth. It’s inconceivable to think that they’ve been together longer than Clyde has been alive. Thirty-four, thirty-five maybe forty years.

They leave because it’s time for Mr Zimmerman’s nap—the medication makes him sleepy— and then it’s just Jimmy and Clyde and Stensland, just like in the old days when the adults went to do their own thing and Mellie had to be put to bed for her afternoon doze. Jimmy excuses himself to use the phone because he still doesn’t believe in cell phones, and then there they are, the last two people standing: Clyde and Stensland, listening to the silence and the sway of the breeze.

“Hey, Clyde,” Stensland says, getting up and stretching his arms over his head. A sliver of belly shows at the movement but is gone a moment later because Stensland turns away to heft the pair of scissors Mr O’Malley left out on the table. 

“You want a haircut too? I won’t even charge you for it. All right, maybe a drink on the house would do. Alcohol is so damn expensive these days.”

Clyde raises his eyebrows at him. “I’m not sure I trust you with a pair of scissors.”

“I’m not sure I trust _me_ with a pair of scissors,” Stensland says, then shrugs. Again he’s giving Clyde nothing. He doesn’t know what Stensland’s intentions are, because when he goes quiet like this, it makes Clyde both nervous and hopeful.

“Well, all right,” he says, because he might as well. This is Boone County and there’s nothing else to do. “Maybe just a few inches off the back. Bill keeps telling me it needs a little trim anyways.”

“Bill?” Stensland asks. The pinch in his voice is palpable. “Who’s Bill? Your boyfriend?”

“He works at the bar,” Clyde replies.

“Right.” Stensland brandishes the scissors in the air, the metal catching the light dangerously. “I think I met him a few times when I came by for piña coladas. Red hair up in a ponytail?”

Clyde nods. “Yep.”

Stensland huffs. “I thought I was the only redhead in your life.”

“Well, that was before,” Clyde says, and he doesn’t mean for it to come out the way it does but Stensland just shrugs it off and gestures for him to sit on the stool. He grabs the towel Mr O’Malley used on Mr Zimmerman earlier, wrapping it around Clyde’s shoulders to catch errant hair.

“You know they cut your hair at West Point,” Clyde says when Stensland makes the first snip. “That’s the first thing they do.”

“All of it?”

Stensland’s movements are quick; his hands don’t linger. Clyde used to be nervous whenever Stensland was around sharp objects but he only ever hurt himself once and that was because he was throwing a tantrum. His Papa gave him a Swiss army knife on his thirteenth birthday and they used it to open liquor bottles and pick locks and carve their names on trees in a promise of fealty and friendship. 

“Yeah all of it,” Clyde says. 

Stensland whines in sympathy. “Oh, your poor ears!”

Clyde feels the back of his neck flush. He hasn’t heard anyone comment on his ears in years. “I saw your picture last night,” Stensland says. “Your graduation picture? It was on the mantel in your living room. You looked really nice, dignified and all that. I mean, just that your ears were taking up a third of the picture but—”

“ _Stensland_ ,” Clyde warns, though he doesn’t turn his head because Stensland’s right hand is suddenly resting on his shoulder and the touch is enough to keep him still. He’s warm: the temperature of the air around them has shot up ten degrees when he moved. Clyde’s paralyzed, every muscle locked down, waiting for Stensland to turn the key.

Then Stensland touches his ear, a fleeting brush that may as well have been an accident. He feels the blade cut off a considerable chunk of hair at his nape, and he jumps, startled more by the sudden sound— _snick_ — than the air hitting his neck.

“If you mess up my hair, Stensland, I swear to god…”

“You can always wear a hat! You look good in hats,” Stensland says, his voice low with affection, teasing. He cups Clyde’s cheek to turn his head around, and there’s his hand glancing against Clyde’s ear again, before it’s gone in a second.

“Trust me,” Stensland says, “I won’t do _any_ lasting damage to your hair. I may not know a lot about everything but I do know my way around a sharp object.”

To demonstrate this, he glides the blades neatly through Clyde’s hair one more time. 

This time, Clyde forces himself to relax and keep his gaze straight ahead, ignore the goosebumps rising on the backs of his arms and his neck. He can feel the weight of his hair lifting as if that were even possible. He’s probably just thinking about the story he read once when he was a little kid: about the woman who cut her lover’s hair while he slept and how she did it for revenge, though that didn’t mean she loved him any less. Their people were enemies and the woman had to make a choice: the death of one against the death of a hundred thousand. 

Clyde thinks about that as Stensland hums behind him, cutting off snippets of his hair here and there. He doesn’t feel any less strong or brave. In fact, once Stensland finishes, collecting tendrils of hair in a dustpan before handing him the same hand mirror from earlier, Clyde finds himself blinking back his surprise.

He touches the sides of his head where the hair is fuzzy and newly shorn. The tips of his ears are showing but it doesn’t make him look goofy or stupid or awkward. He likes it though it’s shorter than his barber would have given him if he’d asked for a trim. 

“Well, at least you don’t look like a billy goat anymore,” Jimmy says when he comes in through the door. 

Clyde meets Stensland’s gaze through the handheld mirror. “What do you think?” Stensland asks, eyebrows raised hopefully. 

“I like it,” Clyde says. “What about you? D’you like it?”

“It’s your hair! Why are you asking me?” Stensland laughs, but he gets a thoughtful look on his face and then he reaches out to swipe a loose curl of hair from Clyde’s shoulder, his touch feathery light it’s almost like it was never there at all. 

“I like this better,” he says. “I can see your ears.”

* * *

The best thing about birthdays in Clyde’s opinion is that you can do pretty much whatever you want and people will let you. At least that’s true for his friends and family. 

This year Clyde is turning thirty five, another year older but none the wiser, and he’s due his pilgrimage out of Boone County. He’s heading to a new camping ground in Nicolas County which has just broken ground. He’s been to a number of state parks over the years, all of them within hours of each other, always alone, because people may not know this about him but he likes wildlife and nature. 

He likes sleeping under the sky and stars and driving westward, just him and some music with the windows rolled down and his head empty of thoughts except of the wide road ahead. Jimmy always asks where he goes on the weekends of his birthday and Clyde just shrugs at him and says to call if anything comes up. 

Nothing ever does; Jimmy leaves him be. It’s a system that has worked well for him over the last few years. 

He tells Bill on a Friday, mopping the bar and leaning against the handle. “I’ll be heading out tomorrow morning.”

Bill pockets his cell phone before going back to shelving the shot glasses above the counter. “Oh? Where to?”

Clyde just shrugs. Bill has worked with him long enough that he knows Clyde won’t budge so he doesn’t ask questions and just nods at him. “I almost forgot it was your birthday.” He chews nervously on the inside of his cheek. “I should have gotten you a cake or something.”

“It’s not till Sunday.” Clyde leans the mop against the wall. “Will you be all right running things on your own tomorrow? I can call Mellie over so she can help out.”

Bar’s closed on Sundays so he isn’t worried about being gone for a whole weekend.

Bill takes a moment to consider. He’s met Mellie a couple of times but he’s still nervous around her because Mellie’s a beautiful woman with a sharp smile and makes everyone nervous. Even Clyde sometimes. 

“Can I bring my friend over to help out? He’s great at managing a rowdy crowd. Not so good at mixing drinks though,” he mumbles, fidgeting with the sleeve of his shirt. “You don’t even have to pay him! And we’ll be good. I promise. Keep the bar spic and span in your absence!”

Clyde smiles and waves a hand at him. “I trust you to keep this place in one piece,” he says.

The pleased grin on Bill’s face is so wide he almost keels over. He grabs his cell phone again to type a message with just two fingers, so quickly they just glide over the screen without pause.

They finish closing up in no time at all and Clyde hands Bill the keys to the proverbial castle. Bill accepts them with a solemn nod and then a firm salute. 

“At ease, soldier,” Clyde chuckles. 

The tension leaves Bill’s shoulders,slumping sheepishly when he sighs. Clyde tells him to go home and get some sleep because tomorrow will be a busy day and he’ll need all the rest he can get. Bill leaves but not before wishing him a happy birthday with one last nod over his shoulder before climbing on his bike. 

Clyde walks back to his trailer, one hand in his pocket, the gravel crunching under his feet with every step he makes. The gravel lot is silent save for the wind in the trees. He stands on his porch in the dark, looking at the bar from across the lot, with all its lights turned off, asleep, a labor of love that almost led him to financial ruin. He turns to key the lock on his front door when he’s caught off guard by a buzzing noise near the ceiling. Clyde squints and shakes his head. He ’ll get rid of the wasp nest when he gets back.

In the morning, he goes out for his usual run though he heads out earlier than usual. There’s something about the days preceding his birthday that make him strangely melancholic, even though his birthday is one of the few days in the year he looks forward to besides Thanksgiving, which he spends with Mellie and Jimmy, and the Fourth of July because Stensland’s parents like to hold an annual barbecue. 

Clyde runs with dew misting his cheeks and clinging to his eyelashes, while all of Boone County is asleep and no one can see him, not the people in those houses that Clyde knows from school who still stare at the missing hand in pity. That’s the beauty about running in the dark: he can pretend he’s whole again. That he’s himself at twenty with so much going on for him and a whole life left to live. Sometimes he pretends that he’s running to leave too.

Clyde makes himself breakfast. One of the sole comforts of living alone is cooking whatever it is he feels like eating though he’s never had the palate for anything fancy. This morning it’s just the usual, though he lays out a couple more strips of bacon because it’s his birthday in a couple of days and he doubts he can get anything that’ll taste as good at the campsite. He’s all packed and ready to go, a thermos of coffee in hand, when he remembers to pay Mr O’Malley a visit. 

Clyde’s parents have been dead for years and it’s been a little tradition of his to inform Mr O’Malley of his little leave-taking because, well, _for good luck_. He hesitates at first because it’s so early and because he knows Stensland will be at home but he doesn’t want to jinx this trip by breaking tradition. So he puts on his big boy pants and just goes.

He pulls up into their driveway, parks the car and rings the doorbell. It’s not even seven in the morning yet. Clyde picks up the morning paper from the welcome mat, ready to hand it over to Mr O’Malley, when Stensland answers the door with his hair as rumpled as his pajamas. 

There are marks on his cheek where he must have slept on it. He rubs his eyes and gives Clyde a groggy once-over, breaking into a yawn. 

“What are you doing here so early?”

Stensland peeks over Clyde’s shoulder, eyes wide in question when he sees Clyde’s car still running, camping gear strapped to the roof.

“Are you going on a trip?”

“Just up Nicolas County.” _Shit._ What the hell’s wrong with him? Why did he say that? _Shit_. “Going camping for the weekend.”

Stensland hums in thought before leaning against the doorway, arms crossed. His eyes look sleepy and soft. He keeps nodding and listing to the side Clyde is afraid he might tip over and he won’t be fast enough to catch him. “Hmmm. That sounds fun. Can I come?” he asks.

Clyde stares at him for a long time and then remembers how to blink. “You wanna go camping?” he says. “ _With me?_ ” 

“Uh-huh.”

“You sure you wanna do that?” Clyde asks, unable to keep the skepticism from his voice. “We’ll be sleepin’ in a tent and hikin’ in the woods and goin’ fishing and all that. There’ll be bugs, all sorts of wildlife; it ain’t gonna be pretty, Stensland. You sure you wanna come with?”

That was meant to deter him but Stensland huffs, clearly affronted. “Do I look like I’m kidding? I’ve been camping loads of times with my dad when I was a kid. _Pssh_. I can handle a little wildlife!”

Clyde doubts it. A little will be too much for Stensland who used to come back from camping trips with his dad with all manner of scrapes and bruises, because he kept doing things he wasn’t supposed to, like play around in poison ivy or feed the squirrels. Somehow Clyde doesn’t think the passage of time has improved Stensland’s chances of surviving the wildlife.

“Well,” Clyde says, still needing to think about it because this is the first time he’ll be taking anybody with him.  
  
But Stensland must have taken that as agreement because he grins excitedly and tells Clyde he’ll just be a minute, packing his stuff.

Clyde stands there, cursing his flimsy resolve and then he steps inside and goes looking for Mr O’Malley to inform him of his change of plans. He tosses the morning paper on the coffee table, shaking his head.

* * *

Stensland takes longer packing than Clyde would have liked because he doesn’t have any of the proper gear. He has to borrow boots from his dad because all he brought with him from Seattle were a pair of flip-flops and leather sandals. Clyde has never been a fashionable kind of guy—he buys all his clothes from the Salvation Army—but he’s sure there’s only so much mileage you can get out of a pair of sandals. Once Stensland has been properly outfitted in an actual pair of pants instead of cargo shorts, Clyde shoulders his stuff to put in the trunk of the car.

Before they can leave, Mr O’Malley pulls him aside. He hands Clyde something in a brown paper bag, motioning for him to go check. It’s a journal, the skin a soft buttery leather, expensive it seems like. The pages—finely textured and cream-colored— are empty save for the first one where Mr O’Malley and Mr Zimmerman have written him a birthday note, the latter in shaky handwriting.

“Mr O’Malley,” Clyde says, and he doesn’t cry very often but he can’t help but get a little choked up. “I can’t accept this.”

“Oh don’t worry about it!” Mr O’Malley laughs. “It’s just a little something from my husband and me.” He gives Mr Zimmerman a pointed look so he wheels his chair over to them.

“You’ve helped us a tremendous amount over the years and especially this year with the…” Mr O’Malley bites his lip, and Clyde thinks he bears a striking resemblance to Stensland in that moment. “Anyway, now’s not the time to get sentimental. You take care, all right?.”

“And take care of my, _my kid,_ ” Mr Zimmerman adds, still having difficulty speaking and needing to pause for breath, but his expression is soft and open in a way Clyde has not seen in a while. that he’s embarrassed without knowing exactly why.

Clyde wants to hug him but the man still strikes fear into his heart even when he’s sixty-three and only half his height sitting in a wheelchair. So he shakes Mr Zimmerman’s hand instead and does the same with Mr O’Malley who, not surprisingly, seizes him in a fierce hug before punching him on the shoulder and then rubbing his cheek like there’s something there.

Unbidden, Clyde flashes back to his parents and how his momma used to do the same thing when he was a kid. Maybe, he thinks, all parents did it, seized by something instinctual within them when in the presence of susceptible youths.

“You take care too,” Clyde tells them both, earning himself a hair tousle.

When he jogs back to the car five minutes later, Stensland has already made himself comfortable, his seat belt clipped on as he bobs his head to a pop song playing on the radio. His normally messy hair is combed down for once, though there’s still errant tufts at the back sticking up. 

“What’s that all about?” he asks when Clyde reaches over to stow the journal in the glove compartment.

Stensland continues to give him a curious look and Clyde finally looks at him in answer. 

“Was just saying goodbye,” he says, putting his seatbelt on too. “For good luck.”  
  
“Ready?” he asks Stensland.

Stensland nods, pulling his sunglasses over his eyes. “Ready.”

* * *

They get to the campground around lunchtime. As it turns out, Stensland is not made for camping but Clyde already had a feeling even before coming in, so he asks the receptionist whether he can rent an RV. 

He’s done his research and read the brochure exactly a year ago when he was planning this weekend. All campgrounds were pretty much alike in amenities and some, while were more lenient than others, charged for pretty much everything from using the toilets to borrowing gear for fishing. 

He has a good feeling about this one though: Clyde had gone on the website—Bill helped him google it— and saw what they had to offer and loved it on sight. There’s a horseshoe pit and an outdoor theater and a playground for kids, all of it evenly spaced out, so there’s hardly a chance for people to run into each other. 

Clyde goes on these trips to get away from people, not to mingle, so he spends most of his time hiking or fishing alone, eating dry cereal by the fire and not speaking a word to anyone except to say hello, can he borrow a can of lighter fluid for the fire pit. 

All of that will have to change this year with the addition of a companion. He’d planned on pitching a tent somewhere it was quiet but it looks like he’ll have to forgo that and save any nature hikes for next year. 

The RV is small and cramped, with one bed in the back and no toilet but it has air conditioning so Stensland won’t have to melt like lard in the heat. There’s a TV that slides out of the wall and into the sleeping space but when Clyde tries the remote it isn’t working.

“Too bad about it, huh,” Stensland says, bouncing on the bed. There’s only one, a queen, but Clyde tries not to bring that up.

The RV is lined up in its very own camping spot, complete with a fire pit and a half-circle of logs surrounding it. There are only two other people on the grounds; one guy’s attempting to set up a tent ways across from them and failing while the other party, Clyde observes, hasn’t left their RV at all from the look of it.

Stensland steps out in pajamas even though it’s only 1PM and too early for bed.  
  
“What? I want to be comfortable!” he explains when he notices Clyde looking at him. “Yes, I’ll be communing with nature but that doesn’t mean I can’t be comfortable doing it.”

Clyde has no words. There aren’t enough words in the English language to express the sheer disbelief that’s warring with amusement within him right now. 

“So what’s on the itinerary? What do you do on these trips? Wrestle bears? Climb trees? Build log cabins?”

Clyde normally just goes for walks and tries his best to finish at least one book he’s brought out of the dozen. If there’s a lake nearby, he’ll go fishing. If there’s a bar, he’ll grab a beer or two by himself. If he’s feeling lonely then his right hand oughta do, though from time to time he’s allowed people into his bed, men, women, doesn’t matter. People are people, and bodies move the same in the dark.

“You wanna go fishing?” he asks, because he knows it’s something anyone can do. Stensland had a phase where he wanted to be a fisherman when they were kids; maybe the same is still true today. 

“Well?” he prompts.

“That sounds low effort enough. Sure, why not?” Stensland rubs his hands together, waggling his eyebrows.

Clyde grabs his stuff from the RV, a first aid kid, some bobbers and a couple of extra hooks and plastic worms, then they head out. The lake is a twenty minute walk from the camping site. There’s nobody around but them, probably because the sun is burning and it’s midday. They’re already breaking up a sweat but Clyde doesn’t mind; he enjoys the peace and he enjoys the quiet. Stensland, it seems, does too because he hums under his breath and walks alongside him without complaint, careful not to step on anything on the ground.

They find a spot in the shade and set up shop. Clyde has only one fishing rod so he lets Stensland do the honors, showing him the correct stance before attaching a plastic worm to the hook. He explains in great detail, the correct way to throw the line. Three times.

“So do I put my hips into it like I’m doing the samba?”

“Nobody’s doing the samba, Stensland. What are you doing? Look, just spread your legs out like this. No not too wide, like that you look ridiculous. Just a little bit like this.” From behind, Clyde nudges Stensland’s feet apart with the toe of his boot. Stensland jumps back and knocks into him in surprise and they share a look that’s equal parts amused and sheepish. Maybe that was too much touching after all, Clyde thinks, and elects to put a respectable distance between them. 

After a half hour of acrobatic poses, Stensland is finally able to mirror his posture without looking like he’s about to take a dump. Clyde can’t believe this is the same person he would often lose sleep over when he was seventeen and didn’t know any better. But then again, he supposes, things haven’t changed much since then. Lately he’s been thinking about him again, though it’s in the vague way he thinks about anything at all like the last movie he’s seen with an ending that could have been better.

“Oh, shit, I almost forgot,” Stensland says, completely dropping the fishing rod on the ground before rooting through the little canvas shopping bag he bought with him. Its contents still elude Clyde but it looks heavy and seems to always be clinking and clanking. 

Stensland makes a triumphant screeching noise, loud enough to upset any nearby wildlife. “Aha! Sunscreen! Never leave home without it.” He taps his temple knowingly. 

And here he is, Clyde Logan, seasoned camper, forgetting sunscreen. Isn’t that just silly?

Stensland slathers sunscreen all over his face and arms like he’s going swimming. He gets some of it on his hair and on the threads of his eyebrows, bits of white clumping. When he inches closer to Clyde, Clyde doesn’t get the opportunity to flee because Stensland’s already uncapping the bottle and grabbing him by the forearm before he can make a run for it.

Stensland’s hands are sticky on his face, tacky almost. His skin smells like sweat and salt and something else, something that makes Clyde’s breath stutter. 

“I can do it myself,” he grumbles.

“I already have a palmful of the stuff, you don’t wanna get your hands all dirty and sticky.” And there’s Stensland logic for you, which half the time only makes sense to no one else but him. “Hold still, will you? This needs to be evenly applied. You don’t wanna burn up in the sun. Trust me, it’s happened to me loads of times. And it’s not pretty.”  
  
He shakes his head. 

Clyde believes this is true, Stensland’s paler than the underside of a foot, the most freckled and redheaded person he knows, but instead what comes out of his mouth is: “This smells like strawberries.”

“I know.” Stensland laughs. “Why do you think I have it? My Papa got it for me, actually. I think he still thinks I’m twelve.”

“Not so hard to believe,” Clyde says.

“Hey, don’t be _mean_.” Stensland sticks his tongue out at him, elbowing him in the side. “I’m just _waifish_ and a little bit of a twink.”

“ _What_ ,” Clyde croaks, but Stensland barrels on.  
  
“No twelve year old has an ass like mine.”

Clyde doesn’t dignify that with a response. He can’t. He’s never seen Stensland’s ass though there was that one time when his family still used to live next door and had that pool that Clyde had come close. It had been an accident: they were fifteen and Stensland was cannonballing into the pool and his shorts had slipped down one ass cheek as he emerged from the water. It was, like the rest of him, pale and freckled.

Clyde, being sixteen, full of hormones and misplaced feelings, had humiliatingly popped a boner that he had to take care of in the shower.

Clyde looks over at Stensland and wonders.

They spend the next forty minutes waiting for the fish to bite. Even though nothing’s happening, and Stensland keeps sighing now and again, it’s not so bad. The bugs haven’t come out to get them yet, though Clyde can hear them chirping in the low grass behind him. 

“So are we just going to sit here all day, waiting?”

“Yep.” Clyde takes a bite out of his nutty protein bar before breaking off a piece and giving it to Stensland. “Bored already?”

Stensland looks at him before turning back to water, face tipped to the sun, hair touched by the lightest breeze. His eyelashes are gold under the light. He missed a spot of sunscreen on the tip of his nose and it started congealing. 

“I’m not bored,” he says before accepting half of the protein bar. “I kind of like this. I don’t get out much though that’s probably my fault because I’m high all the time and binge-watching a TV series made popular in the 1990s. But this is nice isn’t it: just you and me and all the… _fish_.”

Clyde can’t help but chuckle at that.

Stensland manages to reel in a couple of fish the size of his palm but they’re too small to take back with them so they toss them into the water before packing up for the campsite. 

They start a fire and roast seven hotdogs, three of which fall into the fire along with half the bag of marshmallows. They don’t talk much beyond “wow, this is nice” and “will you pass me another marshmallow” and “thanks” and then they’re both tired and kind of smoky and it’s time to go to sleep and the RV only has one bed.

Clyde lets Stensland have it because he’s used to sleeping outdoors more than Stensland probably is. He stays outside, eating the last of the hotdogs and waving away yellow jacket bees before calling it a day. It’s an hour later when he climbs back into the RV to collect a change of clothing.

Clyde hears it first before he sees it and by then it’s already too late and he’s just standing there with his jaw hanging open, his hand on the door handle.

Because Stensland is in bed, yes, but he’s also sleepily tugging on his dick. One hand under his shirt plucking at his nipples, while the other builds a slow and lazy rhythm in his underwear that’s so worn through Clyde doesn’t have to imagine what the shape of his cock looks like. Stensland’s eyes are half-closed. He didn’t hear Clyde coming in.

The slight parting of his lips does something familiar to Clyde’s chest, and Jesus, it’s really like he’s in high school all over again because he used to watch Stensland put that mouth on everything. Clyde used to have embarrassing reactions to that mouth then, and he does again now when Stensland whimpers and bucks his hips, digging his heels into the bedspread.

Clyde slips quietly outside. It takes so much effort to walk away: one because now he’s got an erection and two because it reminds him of that time he walked away from Stensland. Maybe not literally, but joining the army had felt to Stensland like a betrayal of their friendship. He didn’t say it in those terms but he didn’t have to. That was the point where their paths diverged. Clyde had been angry by Stensland’s lack of support, and then finally just disappointed. Stensland had expected the world to revolve around him, for Clyde to follow in his heels and say yes to everything. He was terrified of being alone.

Well, now Clyde is almost thirty-five years old with a list of regrets as long as his arm but he still isn’t sorry about West Point. He’d do it again if he could, even knowing he would lose his hand.

“Fuck,” Clyde screams, “Shitting fuck! Fuck, _fuck_!” 

The tree he’s kicking like a madman has absolutely nothing to do with this but he can’t help but take his anger out on it. He kicks until the muscle of his foot starts to throb and then he’s just panting for breath, hair in his eyes, heart beating a painful rhythm against his ribs. 

It’s dark so no one sees him. No one sees him take out his cock with a sharp hiss and no one hears him groan Stensland’s name under his breath. 

_Stensland, Stensland_ , Clyde thinks, angry at himself for feeling like this after all these years. 

His cock jerks and his balls get larger. He tries to feel ashamed of touching himself like this but the thought of doing something illicit only makes him harder. And thinking of Stensland back in the RV with his bitten mouth and the film of red hair on the curve of his belly makes the animal part of him come alive. He imagines what that pretty mouth would feel like sucking him off, licking his balls, imagines kissing Stensland and fucking him.

Would he be a complete animal in bed and beg to be taken hard, or would he act all demure by getting on his hands and knees, showing Clyde that beautiful ass of his and that tiny pink hole?

Clyde’s not a saint; just like everybody else, he has needs and desires. And this is his deepest desire: to have Stensland writhing underneath him, hot and open, taking all of him and swallowing him up, mind and body.

Clyde comes with a low grunt, catching jizz in his palm. He tries to be quiet but lets out a little gasp despite his best efforts. _Fuck_ , he thinks, shaking his head at himself. He makes the mistake of wiping his hand on his shirt. _Fuck_. Tonight is not his night. Now that the haze of arousal has dissipated, he’ll just have to live with the shame and embarrassment of having touched himself behind some trees where anyone could have caught him. He would have been banned from this campsite for life.

_Jesus_.

Stensland is asleep when Clyde comes back, and like everything else he does, he isn’t discreet about it, sprawled flat on his back like a starfish with his shirt hiked all the way up, one palm splayed over his bare belly. 

Clyde tugs his T-shirt down over his stomach. Nicolas County is cool at night and the little slatted windows around the bed are open as well as the skylight. A breeze whistles in through the slats.

Stensland snores softly, scratching his stomach.

Clyde lifts a corner of the bed sheet, careful not to touch any part of Stensland as he tucks him in. 

On the other side of the campgrounds, someone’s dog is barking. “Night, Stensland,” Clyde says, but Stensland must have already been asleep because he doesn’t answer.

* * *

The next morning Clyde sets out early for a jog. He’d passed out in a sleeping bag last night and woke up mosquito-bitten and cranky, his whole body twingeing where he slept on it wrong. The fresh air does him some good though because by the time he makes it back to the campsite his head is clear and he’s no longer thinking about Stensland in any capacity whatsoever.

That is until Stensland greets him with the brightest of grins, brandishing a pack of beef jerky in the air and waving him over from a distance. “Look what our neighbors gave me! I just popped by to use their toilet and they gave me some free food. Where were you all morning? You weren’t there when I woke up.”

“Went out for a run.” 

Clyde would have gone for a swim too but he doesn’t trust that he wouldn’t get bitten by a fish or something else. Also there’s apparently a no-swimming rule, clothed or otherwise.

He eases himself down on one of the logs surrounding the fire pit, pulling off his beanie and scrubbing sweat out of his hair. He’s in desperate need of a shower. His head is pounding and he smells like dirt and sweat.

Stensland continues twittering on about their supposed neighbors living semi-permanently in the RV across from them, something about tiny houses and traveling cross-country but it just makes Clyde’s head hurt all the more.

“Stensland,” Clyde says, interrupting him mid-spiel, “Look, I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but what are you doing here?”

He’s expecting Stensland to give him one of the non-answers they are both so good at, but Stensland just looks at him and slumps his shoulders. He chews on his thumbnail, a habit from his childhood whenever he got nervous or terrified. Stensland’s fingernails used to be chewed to bits beyond recognition, sometimes to the point of bleeding.

Clyde knows he’s a worrier; he’s seen it before.

“I was lonely,” Stensland says, so quiet Clyde almost misses it.  
  
Suddenly, Clyde feels like a big colossal jerk. The world’s biggest jerk in fact. “Oh,” he says. Make that the whole _stinking_ universe.

“I’m leaving next week and I feel like we haven’t even sat down to talk.” Stensland shrugs. “We used to be friends, and now it’s just like. You’re here but you’re not really… _here_ but somewhere else. Not with me.”

_Well, whose fault is that_ , Clyde wants to ask, but he realizes they’re both complicit in this, dancing away from each other like one moment alone would kill them. There are some things Clyde still isn’t ready to talk about and he wonders why he thought it was a good idea to bring Stensland along on his birthday weekend when—

His birthday.

Which he almost forgot about until this very minute.

Clyde sighs tiredly and gets up. He needs a shower. He needs to get away from Stensland. 

“Where are you going?” Stensland asks him, but Clyde just pretends he doesn’t hear him. He shoulders his bag before leaving for the showers.

* * *

Clyde doesn’t see Stensland for the rest of the day. He tells himself he doesn’t care and then by midday after dog-earing a book that he’d brought along with him he starts getting legitimately worried. He scopes the rest of the campsite for any traces of Stensland. Nothing. He’s not in the mini golf court or the playground, and when Clyde goes to check the lake where they went fishing the day before he’s not there either. Heart beating like a drum, because it’s almost sunset and he doesn’t trust Stensland not to get himself into trouble, he follows the labyrinthian path of the hiking trail that leads deeper into the woods like a storybook nightmare until it gets too dark even with the aid of a flashlight and he’s forced to call it quits.

Dejected, he goes back to the campsite, convincing himself Stensland is waiting just around the corner. He’s an adult; Clyde doesn’t need to look after him.  
  
Just to be sure he’s covering all grounds, he asks the receptionist in the lobby if she’s seen anyone resembling Stensland at all: tall, skinny, redheaded, possibly wearing pajamas. She says they’ll contact him if they see anything but the campsite is a sprawling stretch of land built between two mountains, it’ll be awhile before they find anything. 

Pushing his worst fears aside, Clyde gives himself until the next morning to worry. He drags himself forcibly to the campsite’s only bar where he buys himself a gin and tonic that he nurses for the rest of the night. The place is kitschy as hell but Clyde likes that kind of thing: the decor is made to resemble the hull of a pirate ship, complete with little portholes that seemingly gaze out into a makeshift sea even though the nearest body of water to the campsite is a manmade lake.

Clyde gets a few looks because of the prosthetic, and then a few more out of interest. He doesn’t meet anyone’s gaze, staring blankly into his drink that he touches only in increments. It’s the shittiest birthday ever, he decides. Thirty-five and pissing his pants in worry about whether he’d lost Stensland like a pair of keys he’d just misplaced. He grits his teeth until his jaw aches and he can feel a headache curtaining down. He’s already rehearsing what to say to Stensland’s parents if they never find him again. 

_Fuck_. He’s being an idiot. Of course he’ll find Stensland. He’s probably just somewhere sulking or maybe making a new friend.

Clyde pushes himself off the barstool after shoving a five dollar bill in the tip jar shaped like a lifeboat. He’s not in the habit of getting drunk, at least not anymore now that he’s accepted the fact he’ll never get his hand back or be part of the army again, but a part of him is sorely tempted to. Days like this, when things keep going from bad to worse, make him desperate enough to go on a self-destructive binge, purge all the bad parts of him and emerge the next morning a clean fucking slate.

Clyde walks back to where the RV is parked. The camp grounds are bipolar, cutting paths here and there so people will stumble across the other recreational areas. Now that it’s evening again, everything is closed for the night. There isn’t much in the way of lighting just the few lightbulbs hanging between the trees like bunting.

Clyde pockets his hands out of habit, chuckling ruefully to himself when he can’t fit his prosthetic inside. 

He’s about to feel sorry for himself when he hears a peal of laughter, followed by a familiar voice. _Stensland_.  
  
He follows the source of the sound; it’s easy because it’s coming from the direction of the _Jumping Pillow_ , which is only a few meters away and happens to be reserved for the use of children under the ages of twelve. It’s a glorified trampoline in rainbow stripes, which, now that Clyde thinks about it, is a perfect place for Stensland to hide.

Between the two of them, Stensland has always been the crazy one, and that, Clyde thinks while he shields his eyes with one hand and tries not to see what gravity is doing to Stensland’s private parts, will probably never change. Never. 

“Stensland? What the hell are you doin’ out here not wearin’ any pants?” 

“Hey! Clyde!” Stensland bounces, his feet and his voice, both joyful. “What’s up?”

What is up is Stensland, and his freewheeling selfhood staring straight at Clyde.

“Have you ever tried this?” Stensland asks, his feet hitting the trampoline again, and lifting him up, high, into the night sky.

Clyde scrambles on his hands and knees on the slippery surface of the trampoline and Stensland pauses, his stance wobbling for a moment as he waits for Clyde to join him. His eyes are bloodshot, his hair standing up in peaks. As soon as Clyde gets close enough, he starts to smell him too: he’s high. 

“You’re fuckin’ high,” Clyde says. 

“High on life!” Stensland shouts. His next jump is a particularly big one, making Clyde forget how to breathe for a moment. He’s ready to spring to Stensland’s aid in case anything bad happens, his muscles tense and waiting for it, but Stensland comes down fine, easily, just outside the center of the trampoline, and whoops as he goes back up into the air. 

“You’re only gonna hurt yourself, Stensland. Put your pants back on,” Clyde’s tone verges on the edge of begging. “ _Shit_ , where are your pants?”

“You’re really fucking boring,” Stensland says before leaping into the air, coming down so hard that the elastic skin of the trampoline sends him arching into the night.

“Whoo! Maybe I should try a backflip!” he shouts at Clyde.

“No, no backflips.” He doesn’t want Stensland to break a leg. Or worse: he doesn’t want to have to see the rest of his lower torso if he decides to do a backflip. Trying to keep his gaze above the waist is hard enough when Stensland’s legs are so pale they practically reflect moonlight.

“Well, that’s no fun,” Stensland pouts, bouncing on his heels, like he’s considering jumping again or performing a feat of acrobatic flexibility. Thankfully, he does neither, and throws himself flat on his back instead, long legs flying out before dropping with a soft thump. 

Clyde manages to locate Stensland’s pants behind some bushes but Stensland ignores them when Clyde tosses them at him. They hit him on the chest and he simply pushes them away, scrunching his nose and crossing his arms. Clyde still hasn’t found his underwear but prays for the soul of whoever does.

“I was looking all over for you,” Stensland says, lying on his back and looking up at the sky. He stretches his arms over his head which means Clyde gets a good look at all of him, whether he wants to or not.  
  
Stensland’s shirt lifts up, exposing half his stomach. There’s nothing in the way of covering for his lower extremities but at least he’s still got his socks on, pink and dotted with strawberries, two of his favorite things, Clyde remembers. 

Stensland’s little belly is soft which is a passing detail Clyde doesn’t understand why he’s fixating on. Maybe it’s because seeing it, that strip of pale skin, feels more intimate than seeing him half-naked; maybe it doesn’t even matter at this point because Clyde has accepted the fact he’s still a fool for Stensland, even after all these years.

“I can’t believe you just left me. Hungry, alone and terrified.” Stensland sits up on his palms to glare at Clyde. “I had to resort to foraging for food like a little squirrel! Living off of the charity of other campers!”

Clyde blinks. “What?” He’s sitting on the very edge of the trampoline, a small distance away that may as well be a whole continent with the way Stensland is looking at him.

“Why do you hate me so much?” Stensland whispers, and then his breath hitches and there are fresh tears springing into his eyes. He rubs at them with his fists, his nose trembling with the effort of reining them in.  
  
Clyde is so shocked that he just stares at him for a long time, not moving, not even blinking. 

“Stensland, are you crying?”

“No, it’s just allergies,” Stensland sniffs. “ _Shit_. It’s just allergies! Leave me be! I just remembered a very sad Dawson’s Creek episode, okay? I’m fine, I’m fine.”

He doesn’t look fine but Clyde doesn’t know what else to do. He’s shit at comforting people when he isn’t serving them drinks behind the bar. He gets up on his knees and crawls over. His hands aren’t too steady on the tight skin of the trampoline but he manages to ease himself down next to Stensland without a problem, though he’s careful not to touch him. Too soon and Stensland just might dissolve into a hundred thousand molecules, too late and Clyde just might lose him forever.

“I don’t hate you,”Clyde says. 

Stensland peeks at him from between the fingers spread over his eyes. “Yeah, that sounds convincing,” he snorts.

“I don’t,” Clyde says, more firmly. And this is true. Clyde may still be harboring a petty grudge from childhood, but he doesn’t hate Stensland and he never will, even after everything. He loves him, even if that has never done him a lick of good all his life. He loves him. 

“It’s my birthday today,” Clyde says. 

Stensland laughs. “I know. How could I forget? How does it feel getting closer and closer to death, eh?”

Clyde thinks, not about death but about life and everything he’s done and hasn’t yet. About regret and how it shapes every choice he’s ever made. “You know I thought it would feel different,” he says.

“What? Getting older?”

“Thought I’d have it all figured out by now,” Clyde says.

“The two point five kids and the wraparound porch with the garden full of flowers?”

Clyde can’t help but look at Stensland at that, his face lit up by the light of the moon overhead. His eyes shimmer like the glint of coin in a dark cave.  
  
“I don’t even like flowers,” Clyde says. 

“I’m making a point here! At least try to cooperate.” Stensland rolls his eyes. He pulls his shirt over his stomach, starts to chew on his thumbnail. “I don’t have it figured out either. My life’s a mess to tell you the truth, I’m knee-deep in debt. And I’m _this_ close to getting fired from my job, which half the time makes me want to walk straight into oncoming traffic.” He laughs but it’s completely devoid of emotion. “You know it’s funny, because when we were younger I thought if I left Boone County then all my problems would go away. . Then as it turns out, life is not like television! The problems follow you.”

“You were always the smart one,” Clyde tells him. “At least you got out of the county.”

“I’m not that smart,” Stensland says. “I have no idea what I’m doing. I feel like a hamster running in a little wheel. I just keep running but I’m not getting anywhere.”

“You’re here now,” Clyde says, and Stensland turns to him, leaning up on one elbow. Clyde is getting better at not looking away or glancing down and accidentally getting an eyeful of Stensland’s nether regions. 

“I am,” Stensland agrees. “You’re right.” Then he stops talking and reaches over to slide the palm of his hand over the back of Clyde’s head before pulling him down. 

Stensland’s eyelashes are delicate spikes across his cheeks. Clyde swallows at the proximity.

Then Stensland touches his index finger to Clyde’s chin and says, “Clyde.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Happy birthday.” 

Clyde doesn’t answer. Something knocks against his knee, and then Stensland’s leg is sliding over his, followed by the drag of a hip bone. Stensland isn’t heavy and he smells like chewing gum and sweat and salt and he stops moving when he’s draped about halfway over Clyde, his ass exposed to the night air, his arms braced on either side of him.

When he leans further down, his hair is soft where it brushes against Clyde’s cheek. Clyde isn’t even aware that he’s closed his eyes, until he opens them again when he feels the faint touch of Stensland’s breath on his lips, followed by a shaky exhale that he pulls into his own lungs. He waits a beat before speaking. Stensland doesn’t move; neither of them does.

“What’re you doin’ Stensland?” Clyde asks because maybe by asking he could delay the inevitable. 

“I’m about to give you your birthday present,” Stensland tells him.

It’s then and there that Clyde realizes with dawning resignation that he’s at Stensland’s complete mercy, that his heart is in Stensland’s fickle fist and that he could crush it anytime he wants to.  
  
“Don’t be cruel to me now,” he says.

A soft smile then Stensland touches his chin, his expression changing, becoming serious. “Now you listen here, Clyde Logan, and listen good.” He pokes him in the chest to punctuate every other word. “I don’t ever want to be cruel to you.” 

“I didn’t know you wanted-”

“What if I said I wanted you?” Stensland interrupts, no change in his inflection whatsoever.

Clyde takes a deep breath. Above them, just over Stensland’s shoulder, the sky is large and full of stars. When he breathes again, the air is so crisp it’s almost snappable and breathing it out starts to hurt. 

“ _Stensland_ ,” he says, and it’s supposed to have been a warning but instead comes out as a sigh. Clyde doesn’t want to keep fighting an uphill battle that he’s been losing for years anyway so he tips his chin up and cups the back of Stensland’s head and kisses him.

It’s better than the first one, their mouths barely moving, their teeth knocking together, the kiss sweet and heavy like cream. When it’s over, he feels Stensland smile against his cheek, then the gentle pressure of Stensland’s teeth tugging on his earlobe. 

His tongue is warm and wet when it slides down Clyde’s neck in one smooth motion, like he’s gliding down a hill. Then Clyde feels Stensland’s weight shift and the next thing he knows, Stensland’s hands are on his belt. 

“What the— _what the hell_ Stensland—” Clyde yelps, sitting up.

“What?” Stensland asks innocently but he doesn’t take his hands off Clyde’s belt nor does he look like he wants to.  
  
Clyde doesn’t know what to say. _Stop?_ No, he doesn’t want Stensland to stop. If he did, he wouldn’t be out here on a fucking trampoline letting Stensland nakedly straddle his lap.

“You really wanna do this out here?” He jerks his head in the direction of the threes, indicating how public this is and the fact they can move this elsewhere if they want.

“It’s your birthday,” Stensland shrugs. “You get a pass. What’s a little sex on a trampoline?”

Clyde rolls his eyes but he starts laughing. He resists the urge to throw an arm over his eyes and instead just watches Stensland get to work, grinning at him impishly and getting Clyde’s belt off with deft hands.  
  
_Those hands_ , Clyde thinks. They look delicate just like the rest of him, though Clyde knows for a fact that Stensland is tougher than he looks. He’s easy to discount because of his size, because he moves like a drunk and says the most outlandish things. But he’s brave, maybe even braver than Clyde who joined the army because he was afraid of falling into the same dead end rhythms as the rest of Boone County. And now look what happened.

Stensland tosses Clyde’s belt to the side and it hits the trampoline floor with a soft clink, then in a split second, Clyde’s fly is open. Stensland slides down along the length of his body, pushing Clyde’s shirt up and his briefs down, his tongue suddenly on Clyde’s stomach, moving lower in hot wet circles. Then he gets Clyde’s dick out and Clyde hisses, head falling back as his hips buck up. “Shit. Shit, _Stensland_.”

“You’re really packing, aren’t you?” Stensland observes, petting Clyde’s dick like it’s a prized pet, fingers trailing over the veiny length. He gives the head an affectionate kiss, drawing a string of precome from the slit that snaps as soon as he pulls away. 

“What?” says Clyde, muggy-eyed already with how hard he is.

“Your dick is _fucking huge_. It’s the size of my forearm. _Fuck_. I mean, just look at you. You mean to tell me you’ve been walking around with _that_ in your pants _all this time_?”

Clyde just stares at him without blinking. Sometimes Stensland has the tendency to go off tangent so he sits up and pulls him in for another kiss that’s meant more to calm the rapid pounding of his blood in his ears than it is to shut Stensland up. 

“You know we don’t have to do anythin’ right?” This is true; it still makes Clyde nervous that they’re out here doing this, whatever _this_ is. Sure it’ll make a good story in the future: the time Clyde got a blowjob on his birthday on a fucking trampoline, but they could also get fined, or worst, arrested for public indecency.

And Clyde wouldn’t be able to look Stensland’s parents in the eye anymore or come over for lunch or fourth of July barbecues if it were the latter.

“I know we don’t have to do anything but I want to do _something_ now more than ever when you’re looking like _that_.”

“Huh?” Clyde says intelligently.

Clyde won’t remember the next fifteen minutes with any coherence later. His thighs are trembling. His cock feels like it’s ten feet long with the way Stensland is moving down him, slowly, gently, squirming his ass in the air like he’s trying to tempt a saint. 

“All right, just be careful down there,” Clyde says, swallowing gulps of air and leaving him to it. 

“You make it sound like I’m about to go on an expedition,” Stensland snorts. “I can handle it. I’ve sucked some cock in my lifetime; give me a little credit. If they gave out belts for cocksucking I’m at least a blue belt. ”

Clyde has no idea what Stensland is saying about belts because he’s so hard and holding his breath so long that he gets a little light-headed. And then Stensland curls his hand and his tongue around his hard cock and his brain completely whites out: his cock jumps in Stensland’s mouth while his hips thrust upward reflexively. 

“Shit,” he groans.

Stensland’s mouth is wet, silky heat and he bobs his head like those pretty guys in Clyde’s favorite pornos, the ones that get fucked hard and vicious by big guys like Clyde. Except he’s much better than them, because he’s real, sucking Clyde’s dick like it’s a competition and he’s gunning for first prize. Clyde thinks he looks beautiful, eyes half-closed as he makes these soft noises that go straight to Clyde’s dick. 

“Easy,” Clyde grunts, when Stensland starts choking as he attempts to deep throat Clyde. He touches Stensland’s hair to guide his rhythm so Stensland can pull up for air now and again. “Easy,” he repeats. “You know you don’t have to take it all at once.”

“Yeah,” Stensland agrees as Clyde’s cockhead slips from his lips, spit and precome dribbling from the corners as he clears his throat. “I guess I was getting a-head of myself there.” He blinks, and then they lapse into silence, then burst out laughing when the joke hits home.

“Fuck,” Stensland breathes. His eyes are watery from trying to blow Clyde like a pro. He rests his chin on Clyde’s hip then darts out a tongue to lick at Clyde’s balls, one lick turning into a dozen until Clyde’s dick starts to twitch. 

“ _Nn_.”

“God, I wish I could sit on that big beautiful dick right now.”

“ _Stensland,_ ” Clyde groans.

“I would,” Stensland tells him, nodding. “If I could. I didn’t bring anything with me. Don’t have any lube. Shame.”

The thing is,Clyde would let him if the situation allowed it. He wants it, just thinking about it makes his dick leak: Stensland riding him and gasping from how big he is and then coming untouched. 

“Next time,” Clyde promises, though he doesn’t know if that’s true. But it feels like the truth in this moment and that’s all that matters to him.

“I’ll hold you to that,” Stensland says before sliding into his arms so they can make out like horny teenagers. Stensland wraps Clyde’s good arm around his waist and grinds his erection against Clyde’s hip, slow and lazy. The trampoline trembles underneath them with every movement. Clyde can hear the wind breathing in the trees, interspersed with the sound of Stensland’s sighs.

Stensland yelps and jumps when Clyde swipes a hand over an exposed asscheek and squeezes. It’s soft and springy in his palm, small. 

Stensland bites Clyde’s bottom lip. “Let me finish sucking you off and then you can do me next, okay?”

“Okay,” Clyde says.

Stensland grins then he slithers all the way down to Clyde’s lap like a sneaky little mouse. This time, he finishes Clyde off in no time, sucking at what he can fit into his mouth, swirling his tongue over the dripping head. His soft hand is wrapped around the rest of Clyde’s length, pumping him in a steady rhythm that makes Clyde wonder how he’s gotten so good at this.

“Stensland, _fuck_ , I’m about to—” 

Instead of getting off his dick, Stensland sucks harder, the head of Clyde’s cock bumping the inside of his cheek. Clyde comes from the friction with a low groan and it seems to last forever, his back arching, his legs shaking, eyes screwed shut. 

When he opens them and can finally breathe again, Stensland is lying on his side, right next to Clyde’s hip, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He stops when he sees Clyde looking at him and sticks his tongue out to show Clyde that he swallowed.

 _Jesus_ . Clyde shakes his head and closes his eyes again, wanting to laugh. _Jesus_. 

Stensland is—

He rolls Stensland onto his back. Stensland goes and lets himself be pinned, spreading his legs without Clyde needing to ask. Clyde has been trying his best not to peek—he’s not a pervert and Stensland is still his friend—and now that he’s allowed to, his heart stops in his chest.

Stensland is pink all over: his face, his chest, and his cock too apparently, flushed an attractive shade and resting against his stomach. Clyde has seen enough naked people in his lifetime. There were communal showers in the army and he’s fucked and been fucked by a bunch of different guys, a few of them from his platoon. But Stensland still looks like the best thing he’s ever laid eyes on in his life with his legs spread like a feast and his lips parted and wet.

“Lift your shirt up,” Clyde says, because he wants to see the rest of him, wants to see where the flush begins and ends. 

Stensland’s nipples are pink, delicate things that stand to attention when Clyde so much as breathes against them. They harden into little nubs when Clyde pushes his shirt further up, Stensland’s skin rippling over his ribs as he breathes.

Stensland meets his gaze encouragingly. “Do it,” he whispers. “I like my nipples played with when I’m getting fucked.”

“Jesus,” Clyde groans. The mouth on this one. “Do you always say stuff like that?”

“Like what?” Stensland asks, confused.

“I’m not gonna fuck you,” Clyde says. At least not yet, he thinks. Because now that Stensland has given him the idea he can’t stop thinking about it. It’s gonna be good, so good. He’ll make Stensland come on his dick loads of times. 

Stensland sniffs, tipping up his chin. “I was just saying. It was an open invitation to play with my nipples.”

Clyde flicks his tongue over the left one, closing his lips around it before tugging at it with his teeth. The response is instantaneous: Stensland whimpers and squirms and curses.  
  
Clyde bestows the same courtesy to the other one, grazing his teeth a little more firmly over the skin.

It’s easy to bring Stensland off, even though Clyde tries to be really careful about it. His cock is already wet, slippery with precome at the tip when Clyde presses his tongue flat against it. When Clyde’s finger accidentally brushes his taint, Stensland whines like he’s been kicked, arching up, up, into the touch, toes flexing.

“You like that?”

Stensland nods, biting his lip. His balls are plump, full and ready to burst. “Uh-huh. Feels good.”

So Clyde does it again, brushing two fingers across Stensland’s hole and teasing it open with just a dry fingertip. He doesn’t try to push them in; he knows better than that. But it drives Stensland crazy anyway, and he grabs Clyde by the ears and starts thrusting up into his face,shuddering as he comes.

Now it’s Clyde’s turn to swallow. The hot rush of it is surprising but not entirely unwelcome. He licks his lips then lies down next to Stensland in the aftermath, pushing sweaty hair out of his face. He’s suddenly glad for the haircut Stensland gave him earlier in the week: the air has gotten warmer all of a sudden; there’s sweat dampening his neck and beading across his upper lip.

Still panting, Stensland turns his head to look at him, eyes wet and green like living things. Then without warning he smacks Clyde on the thigh.

“Ow!”

“Happy Birthday, Clyde,” Stensland says, grinning with his eyes closed. “You just had sex on a trampoline.”

Clyde laughs because Stensland is right: he’s thirty-five now, still riding the dopamine buzz brought about by a pleasant orgasm and lying on a trampoline with his dick out while his best friend doesn’t have any pants on. They probably look like they’ve lost their minds but for the first time in his life Clyde doesn’t give a flying fuck.

* * *

The next morning, before the drive back home, Clyde makes it a point to pay the gift shop a visit. It sells all sorts of knickknacks from keychains to silly hats and screen-printed shirts that are 10% off if you buy the matching hat. He contemplates getting Mr O’Malley and Mr Zimmerman a present, but nothing stands out to him and he doesn’t think they’d have any use for door chimes made from puka shells. 

Stensland stands just a few steps away from him, peering at the cluttered shelves and humming, touching everything out of curiosity. Thankfully he hasn’t dropped anything yet but it’s probably just a matter of time. 

They slept together in the RV the night before—didn’t fuck because the timing didn’t seem right and they were both tired after they had their moment on the trampoline— Clyde with his back to the wall while Stensland scooted close, pressing up against him, his back to Clyde’s chest, his ass to Clyde’s clothed dick. While it had felt awkward at first, Clyde soon got the hang of it. He fell asleep breathing in the sweet smell of Stensland’s hair, his arm wrapped loosely around his waist, Stensland breathing gently against him.

Now in the light of the morning, it seems like none of it ever happened at all and Clyde isn’t sure what the etiquette is about broaching the subject. Should he or shouldn’t?

He’s still thinking about it when Stensland emerges triumphantly from behind a stack of hand-painted postcards with scenic views of the surrounding mountainside. He waves several in his hand to show Clyde.  
  
“My parents love this kind of thing. You should buy them these; they’ll get them framed, I bet. You know how old people are.”

“Old people,” Clyde repeats not without a touch of skepticism.

“I almost forgot,” Stensland grins, then presses a sneaky kiss to the corner of his cheek before dancing away and glancing at Clyde over his shoulder, mischief in his eyes. “You’re thirty-five now. You’re old too.”

“Hey, I’m only a year older than you,” Clyde calls out, but Stensland isn’t listening, singing under his breath with fingers plugged into his ear like a little kid.

* * *

They stop for lunch at a roadside diner just an hour outside Nicolas County. It’s just the two of them there, including the waitress and the cook. The jukebox in the corner is playing Dolly Parton. 

Stensland orders from the kid’s menu and asks for a side of salad. The waitress gives him a look but says nothing, pocketing her notepad and pen before walking away and calling out their orders to the kitchen. Then she comes back with a bowl of boiled peanuts: appetizers. 

Clyde starts to smell food cooking five minutes later.

“So,” Stensland says, rearranging the tray of condiments on the table. “About last night.”

That immediately gets Clyde’s attention, his blood running cold at the drop of a hat. 

“It was nice,” Stensland continues, chewing his bottom lip before flicking his gaze back to Clyde.

“But?” Clyde prompts. 

“But nothing,” Stensland says. “It was perfect.”

At Clyde’s confused look, Stensland shrugs and starts shredding paper napkins.

“You kissed me,” Clyde points out.

“So? You kissed _me._ ” Stensland raises his eyebrows. “So don’t worry about it.”

“I’m not worried,” Clyde says, and Stensland looks at him like he doesn’t believe it one bit. He has every right to; Clyde is still thinking about whether he’ll get to kiss Stensland again. He wanted to this morning, while they were brushing their teeth together in the public sink, Stensland all sleep-eyed and rumpled in his pajamas, no one around to see them. Then again later when they were packing up, while Stensland was nibbling on the last of the beef jerky.

The song on the jukebox changes, this time it’s something from the Stones, and Stensland makes a face of disgust before throwing his hands up in frustration. “Doesn’t anyone have any taste in these parts?” He starts patting around his pockets. “You don’t happen to have a quarter on you do you?”

Clyde just happens to have a few in his wallet. Beaming, Stensland takes one to the jukebox. The song changes not a second later.

Clyde hasn’t heard this song in a long while. “Sonny & Cher?”

“Yep.” Stensland starts mouthing the lyrics to the song, swaying his hips as he saunters back to their table. He’s got some moves, Clyde will give him that, and he finds himself holding back a smile. Stensland is, without a doubt, ridiculous. So ridiculous in fact that Clyde can’t help but think the world shines out of his ass.

_“They say we’re young and we don’t know… we won’t find out until we grow…well I don’t know if all that’s true, cause you got me, and baby I got you…”_

Clyde starts eyeing him appreciatively. “Didn’t know you could hold a tune.”

“ I can’t,” Stensland laughs.

Their food arrives a few minutes later but by then Clyde has run out of quarters.

However, Stensland doesn’t seem to mind that they don’t have sole control over the music, drumming his fingers on the tabletop and humming along off-key to whatever’s playing. This is the most at peace Clyde has seen him since he came back home to Boone County. Under the table, his feet tap in rhythm with the beat. He keeps his eyes half-closed and languid.

“This is nice, isn’t it?” Stensland asks around a mouthful of sweet potato fries, just as Buddy Holly’s _Peggy Sue_ drifts to a close. “It’s like we’re on a little date.”

“Stensland, if I was to take you out on a date, I wouldn’t take you to some crummy little diner outside of Nicholas County called Jerry Lee’s Bar and Bookshop. I got a little more class than that.”

“Shhh! The waitress might hear you and kick us out!” Stensland snickers.

“It’s true,” Clyde tells him. “I wanna take you somewhere nice. Somewhere you like. Maybe we could even go riding.”

“Well, I wouldn’t mind riding your dick,” Stensland says, making Clyde almost spit out his orange juice.

* * *

It’s a little after one pm when they cross over to Boone County, where the air is milder and Mr O’Malley greets them at the door with a hug. As Stensland has predicted, they love the postcards. Mr Zimmerman doesn’t seem to be a big fan of the matching t-shirts, though, which Stensland insisted all four of them get, so they could take a picture and hang it above the mantel.

“So are you staying over for dinner?” Stensland asks after the nth time Clyde checks his watch. He overstayed by a couple of hours because Mr O’Malley wanted to show him the little birdhouse he and Mr Zimmerman had been working on all weekend. They wanted Clyde’s opinion and not Stensland’s on where best to put it in the yard: under the tree or next to the rosebush.

“Sorry,” Clyde says when Stensland raises his eyebrows hopefully. “I gotta get back.”

“To the bar?” Stensland asks.

“Need to go check on Billy.” He nods. “He might need some help. It’s a Monday and we’re waiting on a shipment of these new beers. This European stuff we wanna try, see if the folks like the taste of it.”

“Right.” Stensland nods and crosses his arms as he leans against the doorway, making himself look small. “So I’ll see you then, I guess.”

“All right,” Clyde says. “See you.”

Clyde climbs back in his car. The light over the front porch flickers on as he’s backing down the driveway. He sees Stensland wave at him in the rearview mirror but before he can wave back Stensland has already disappeared inside.

When he shows up to the bar, it looks like Bill has everything under control. Nothing’s broken, no one’s died, and even Bill himself seems to be perfectly intact, wearing his hair up in a neat ponytail as he clears out tables. Though there seems to be a new addition to the staff, Clyde has never seen before.

“Who’s this?” he asks, gesturing at the guy behind the bar.

“Uh, my friend,” Bill stutters. “Matt. Matthew. He’s been helping me out. He won’t get in the way. He’s harmless.”

Clyde eyes the guy— _Matt_ —up and down. Whether or not this guy is harmless remains to be seen. Matt seems to be sizing him up as well, appraising him with equal wariness. He’s got giant glasses on, like periscopes, and he looks like he works out. _A lot_. Also, he’s very blond and Clyde thinks he looks vaguely familiar. He’s seen him somewhere before but he can’t put his finger on it. 

“Hello, my name is Matt.” Matt says, in a deep,booming voice, clipping his words like a robot. “I’m Techie’s friend.”

“Who’s Techie?” Clyde asks, “What the hell’s been going on around here?”

Bill is quick to fill him in on what he missed: how the shipment came the hour before but the orders had been mixed up so they’re gonna have to wait a few more days for the beer, and also that his nickname is _Techie._ People at his night school call him that, as do people on the internet (he runs some sort of website); he asked Matt to help out since he needed an extra pair of hands and Matt didn’t mind not getting paid. He was mostly in it for the company. 

Then he asks how Clyde’s trip went. 

“Sorry I didn’t bring you anything,” Clyde says, feeling guilty.

“Did you have fun?” Bill asks. 

Clyde thinks about it for a moment. _Stensland_ , he thinks and has to stop himself from touching his lips. Did he have fun?  
  
“Yeah,” he says.

* * *

Clyde has always been of the belief that you can tell a lot about a person by the first drink they order at a bar. His instincts have never let him down. He can tell the mean drunks from those just looking for a good time. He’s been tending bar for years; it’s a skill born only of experience. A man ordering bourbon or scotch clearly knows what he’s doing and what he likes, while anyone asking for something juicy or overly sweet is gonna be dead drunk before the night is over. They probably don’t even like the taste of alcohol and are just in it for the sugar. Meanwhile tequila means someone’s looking for a wild night. He’s never had trouble with beer drinkers before because those folks seem to be content just sitting in a corner and watching whatever game is on in silence. 

“Clyde! Over here!”

Stensland waves him over to his end of the bar. Clyde almost drops a crate of bottles on his feet. He hasn’t seen Stensland since he dropped him off at his parents’ house two days ago, enough time for the events of last weekend to feel like a dream. 

Stensland smiles when Clyde moseys on over. “Hey,” he says, leaning on the spill ridge, fluttering his eyes.

Clyde glances around the bar. Billy is in the back. There are a handful of people in tonight, new faces as well as old ones. Clyde wonders if anyone is watching them. “Uh, what can I get you, Stens?”

“Do you have a _strawberry lemonade vodka_ on the menu?”

They don’t; he’s not even sure they have strawberries so he goes to check the fridge.

They have strawberries. He squints at Billy. They have strawberries? He feels both a mixture of betrayal and relief. 

“All right, you’re in luck. Seems like we have some strawberries. You sit tight and lemme make that for you.”  
  
Clyde pulls out a chopping board and a knife. Mixing Stensland’s drink is easy, even with the one hand missing. He doesn’t look up once because he’s not sure he could stand it if Stensland was staring. He doesn’t give a shit if it’s other people but he doesn’t want Stensland feeling sorry for him too.

Clyde doesn’t spill anything as he pushes Stensland’s drink toward him, so sweet it’ll make anyone’s teeth ache. He knows Stensland’s penchant for strawberries: the sweeter the better. He used to want to live in a strawberry farm back when they were kids. He had a lot of dreams, back then. If it wasn’t living in a house by the water, it was living in a farm surrounded by fruit.

“Thanks,” Stensland says, accepting his drink with an awed smile. “How much do I owe you?”

Clyde waves a hand. “On the house. Don’t worry about it.”

Stensland raises a brow at him but he lifts his glass in a little salute. “You wanna make a toast with me?”

“For what?” 

“I don’t know.” Stensland rubs his mouth against the sleeve of his shirt. Clyde tries not to get too distracted by it but it’s a lost cause and now he can’t help but notice how wet Stensland’s lips are. When they kissed for the first time, they were dry and soft. “We can probably think of something. What do you think?” 

Clyde has a rule about drinking on the clock. It’s a rule he’s maintained over the years to run a tight ship. There has to be a good reason to break it, like someone dying or getting married. “I’m working tonight so I can’t. Sorry about that.”

“Not even a shot?”

Clyde sighs. Years later and he’s still weak for a pretty set of eyes. He hesitates but one second later and he’s pouring himself a shot of gin and hating himself. Breaking tradition is probably bad luck but maybe having Stensland in his bar can offset that. 

They toast. “To Boone County,” Stensland grins. “Long may it prosper.”

Clyde snorts into his drink before downing it one go. It burns his throat and he sets it on the bar with a clink. 

Stensland lifts his eyes hopefully, peering at Clyde just over the rim of his glass. “What time do you close tonight?” he says. 

“Same as usual. Little bit after one in the morning but Bill and I stay till about two to clean up.”

Stensland nods. He takes a sip of his drink, then another. His lips are wetter, shining. “You have plans after?”he asks.

When does Clyde ever have plans? His usual routine at home involves cooking himself a nice microwaveable dinner, listening to some radio and then jerking off in the shower. Sometimes the orders of these activities change, depending on the weather or the lateness of the hour; sometimes he even watches TV or has a beer out on the porch. Which reminds him: he still hasn’t gotten rid of that wasp nest. He doesn’t know why he keeps forgetting.  
  
“I’ll probably just sleep, watch some TV.” He shrugs. Last night he’d almost touched himself thinking of Stensland and that time on the trampoline but he managed to resist the temptation and went to bed instead.

“Right. Of course,” Stensland says, and there’s something bothering him, Clyde can tell that much. 

While they’re waiting for someone to break the awkward silence, Clyde turns his attention to the game on TV while Stensland stares at the side of his head. He knows that Stensland is waiting to say something. 

Often, Stensland never thinks before he speaks but this time it seems he’s taking his time gathering his words together.  
  
“Listen, Clyde,” he starts out slowly.

Just then the door to the backroom opens. It’s Bill, cradling the phone against his shoulder, poking his head out. The phone is an old model, one of those types that is still attached to the wall with a notepad next to it.

“Clyde,” Bill mouths. “It’s for you. It’s the suppliers,” he whispers.

Clyde excuses himself. Stensland nods at him in dismissal, and he finishes the rest of his drink in silence.

* * *

Mr O’Malley invites Clyde to lunch again, going all out with the food because Stensland is leaving for Seattle the next morning. 

It hadn’t even occurred to Clyde that Stensland was only going to be in Boone County for a short while. He has half a mind to turn down the invitation but reminds himself that this will probably be the last time in a long while he’ll see Stensland. And then it’ll be what, another five, ten years? He doesn’t know. He goes because he’s a sucker for Mr O’Malley’s cooking. And because it seems he’s a sucker for Stensland too.

At lunch, Stensland eyes him furtively over a plate of burger and chips, glancing away now and again. He’s been quiet the whole time, the opposite of Mr O’Malley who keeps talking about another DIY project he’ll be undertaking with his husband.

Mr Zimmerman seems to be doing largely okay, able to speak in short sentences without pausing for air. They eat lunch outside in the yard, on a rickety table that is also a product of their DIY schemes, all their chairs mismatched and wobbly-legged. 

Clyde, because it’s only polite, helps Stensland collect the dishes when the conversation reaches a lull after their meal. He follows Stensland to the kitchen, handing him the cutlery he’d forgotten to take back inside. 

“Hey,” Clyde says. Because the dishwasher’s broken, Stensland is doing the dishes by hand. He seems intent on scrubbing his skin off, and there’s a lot of clattering and clinking. “Been doin’ anything good?”

Stensland shrugs. “Not really, no.”

“Yeah,” Clyde says, feeling shot down and awkward. “Okay.” He picks up the hand towel lying around and hangs it on a hook by the sink, the noise of running water killing any opportunity for further conversation.

“Oh, fuck you!” Stensland’s mouth is twisted sourly as he wheels around to look at him. “Fuck you! I can’t believe you’re just going to say ‘okay’ and just sweep everything under the rug. You’re the worst person ever, Clyde Logan.”

“Me? _I am?_ ” 

“What do I have to do?” Stensland asks. “I mean, come _on_ , Clyde! You could cut the tension between us with a knife. He sets the plate he’d been washing down; Clyde is glad for it too because he could drop it and injure himself.

“You wouldn’t stay for dinner, you didn’t call me after we—well, _you know_ . I went to the bar and wanted to go home with you but you didn’t even ask. _You didn’t ask._ I was so mortified. Did you know I had to call my parents to pick me up from the bar because I wasn’t expecting to go home that night? I’m leaving tomorrow and you act like—” His voice is uneven. He gestures at Clyde, helplessly. “— _like there’s nothing going on._ What do you want Clyde? What is it that you really want?”

“I want,” Clyde says, but then it hits him that he doesn’t know. Or maybe he does but it’s not that simple. Because it’s not easy wanting Stensland for half his life and then suddenly having him. 

“Everybody still got room for dessert?”

Clyde glances at Stensland when Mr O’Malley appears in the doorway, poking his head in. “Sure, Mr O’Malley,” he says but he doesn’t take his eyes off Stensland for a second and neither does Stensland look away from him.

“Stensland?” Mr O’Malley asks.

Stensland shakes his head and wipes his hands on his shirt. “I’m gonna go take a long nap. I suddenly got a headache.”

“But I made strawberry shortcake, sweetheart! It’s your favorite!”

Clyde hears the thump of his footsteps up the stairs, then the slam of the door, like a kid throwing a tantrum. He returns Mr O’Malley’s quizzical look with a shaky smile, embarrassed by the display and feeling guilty for being privy to it. 

“Strawberry shortcake, huh? Sounds delicious, Mr O’Malley.”

Mr O’Malley takes the aforementioned cake from the fridge. “I guess he’s having an off day. You know how he gets.”

Unfortunately, Clyde does.

* * *

Two knocks and Clyde wakes up. Three knocks and he’s reaching for the bedside lamp. Four and he’s stumbling out the hallway, grumbling under his breath. It’s three in the fucking morning and he’s just fallen into bed half an hour ago. It better not be anyone from the bar, he thinks viciously, and then he opens the door in his boxers and t-shirt and it’s Stensland standing there.

 _Stensland_. 

“What are you doing here?” Clyde blinks, just to make sure he isn’t seeing things. “It’s three in the morning. Are you drunk?”

“Why do people always question my sobriety! I’m not drunk. And before you ask, no I’m not high either.”

Clyde peers over his shoulder. “Your parents drop you off again?”

Stensland laughs. It’s mean and cold and meant to hurt him. He pushes himself inside, squeezing past Clyde, not bothering to take off his shoes. “I walked here. Yeah, I did. All the way from my parents’ house. Ha!” The color is high on his cheeks and Clyde suspects that he might have been lying about being drunk. Or maybe there’s another reason behind it: Stensland’s entire face goes red when he’s angry, or when he’s cried. Clyde tries not to think about him being the reason for either.

“I couldn’t sleep. I had a lot to think about on the way here.” Stensland makes a frustrated noise, clenching his fists. “I’m leaving for Seattle and I can’t believe you’re letting me go just like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you don’t give a shit about me!”

Clyde wants to laugh but the sound won’t come out. “You know that’s not true. I give a shit about you.” 

“Then prove it!”

“And for what?” Now Clyde’s voice has risen in volume too. “So you could leave Boone County again and break my heart? I lost you once Stensland but I was just a kid back then and real stupid. I know what it’s like to be left behind.”

“You left first,” Stensland says, and Clyde’s not going to think about how quiet Stensland’s voice has become. He’s been weak for Stensland for the longest time, but he’s not anymore or at least he’s trying not to be.

“I was always gonna come back though, wasn’t I? It wasn’t like I was leaving for good.” He screws his eyes shut and opens them again. Stensland isn’t even looking at him anymore, his gaze fixed on the floor. “You got that scholarship to that fancy art school of yours and you never looked back since. You were always too good for us _simple folk._ You hated it here all your life.”

“I was never too good for you,” Stensland says. “And I never hated _you_.”

Clyde looks at him. “Really.”

“You were my best friend, Clyde Logan,” Stensland says. “I wanted—never mind what I wanted. It doesn’t matter. I’m tired, I need a drink, I’m horny as hell.” He buries his face in his hands then lifts his head . “—I really want you to fuck me.”

Clyde thinks about it, really thinks about it. What’s happening here, what it might mean, how complicated it might get. He should tell Stensland to go home, to leave, it’s late and he has a flight to catch.

“Is that why you’re here? You wanna be fucked?” he says instead, slow, deadly.

“What do you think?” Stensland huffs, and he grabs Clyde by the front of his shirt to pull himself up to his feet. He’s not lying about not being drunk or high: he doesn’t smell like weed or liquor. 

Stensland’s face softens as he presses his body against Clyde’s. He’s warm; is the first thing Clyde notices. The bruise on his eye has all but faded, the stitches taken out.

Stensland kisses him first because he’s always been the braver one between the two of them, wrapping his arms around Clyde’s shoulders and breathing against his lips. Clyde grips a bony hip with his good hand, walking Stensland backwards to the wall.

Clyde can taste the salt on Stensland’s tongue and his satisfied sigh. He shudders against him, a low tremor that Clyde feels reverberating inside his own chest. The kiss grows and expands, becoming more open-mouthed, and when Clyde moves to pull away, Stensland yanks him back with a soft whine. 

“No, no, don’t,” he whispers, kissing him again until their mouths are sore and Clyde feels like a teenager, copping a feel of Stensland’s ass and humping his thigh. He’s never kissed a person this much before but then again he never had a reason to.

Clyde follows Stensland to the bedroom, stumbling like he’s drunk. On the bed, he yanks Stensland’s clothes off; it doesn’t take too long to undress him because Stensland has already taken his shirt off prior to stepping a single toe over the threshold. He’s not wearing any underwear underneath his pajamas and Clyde snorts, seeing this.

“Really?”

“Leave it be.” Stensland blushes but kicks his socks off. He’s pale all over, his slim calves tapering to skinny ankles.

Clyde wants to be smooth and suave and give Stensland the fuck of his life, but his hand keeps trembling and shaking and when he uncaps the lube with his teeth, he spills the stuff all over himself when he squeezes the tube with his fingers.

“ _Shit_.”

“Are you alright? Need some help?”

Clyde’s embarrassed he can’t even do this right because of the hand issue. Stensland sits on his knees and scoops some of the lube up and off Clyde’s shirt, then he takes two of Clyde’s fingers and dips them into his slick palm, coating them well up to the knuckle.

“You wanna finger me? Or I could do it myself if you want and you can just watch me get ready for you.”

“I can do it,” Clyde says a little too firmly. He’s not completely incapable. 

“All right,” Stensland says, before pressing a kiss to his forehead. “All right.”

  
He lies back down on the bed, a vision with his knees spread wide and his red hair across Clyde’s pillow. His hole is so small; Clyde is afraid of hurting him and of Stensland hating him for it.

Stensland touches his left forearm, the one missing a hand, prompting Clyde to look at him. He squeezes the stump tenderly, where Clyde’s wrist rounds out and ends in a nasty scar. There are only two other scars on Clyde’s body: one from a childhood accident above his left hip, another one from the army under his rib, which he picks at from time to time even though the doctor had said not to.

“Come on,” Stensland strokes down Clyde’s arm. “Do it. I want it. Please, _please_.”

The first finger has Stensland tensing up. He relaxes after Clyde licks his taint, then he dissolves into a series of moans when Clyde licks again and again. Clyde pulls his finger out despite Stensland’s protests but he’s got an idea that he’s sure Stensland will like.

Clyde has never done this with anyone before but he’s familiar enough with the mechanics. He’s seen it done a lot in pornos. It’s all about instinct, and doing whatever makes Stensland feels good. So he keeps Stensland open with one thumb as he licks into him in generous swipes. He can feel Stensland clenching up on his tongue, his whole body trembling when Clyde starts lapping at him in earnest. 

It’s not pretty; he gets slobber all over Stensland’s ass and it drips down his little hole, mixing in with the smears of lube.

“Fuck,” Stensland gasps. “Eat me out. _Yeah._ ”

There’s a hand in his hair, guiding the movement of his mouth and Clyde leans further in, nuzzling Stensland behind the balls, kissing the inside of his soft thighs before stiffening his tongue and fucking in. Clyde starts teasing him again with one finger, followed by another one which Stensland takes with a sigh and a groan of relief, his head thumping back against the pillows, his back arching up. His mouth opens and closes but no sound comes out, just his rapid panting breath. 

Stensland whimpers and bucks his hips, taking Clyde’s fingers deeper inside him and riding them rhythmically. 

“Kiss me, please,” he says, voice getting all whiny and high-pitched as Clyde continues to fuck him with his fingers, rubbing up against Stensland’s prostate so that his cock jumps each time, leaking an embarrassing amount of precome. It’s an innocuous request that Clyde is more than willing to fulfill. He’s starting to get used to kissing that beautiful mouth that he only used to dream about when he was younger, lying in his bed in a room he shared with Jimmy.

Clyde doesn’t know how long they keep kissing, just that his lips and tongue feel sore after. Clyde fucks him with two fingers, slowly, leisurely, while he licks into Stensland’s mouth and Stensland moans against him, shaking and stroking his face with his thumbs. He really seems to like it like this, filthy and wet, his hole opening for three of Clyde’s fingers now, so greedy, and his dick getting harder for it. He keeps murmuring Clyde’s name, eyelids fluttering, mumbling about how much he wants it so bad.

He’s beautiful, Clyde thinks. So ready and eager to get Clyde’s dick inside him.

“Wanna come from getting pounded by your magnificent dick,” Stensland laughs, sounding dreamy and delirious, reaching between their bodies to rub Clyde’s cock in teasing strokes. “It’s gonna feel so good, I know it. I just know it.”

“You want it that bad, darlin’?”

Stensland nods frantically. “ _Uh-huh._ Do it. Come on, fuck me. Want your cock.”

Clyde shimmies out of his boxers one-handed, a skill that’s hardly impressive with all the shuffling he needs to do. He tears a condom foil open with his teeth, pinching the tip before unrolling it over his throbbing dick. Clyde squeezes himself a few times, and it feels good to finally get to touch himself just to take the edge off. He’s never been this turned on in his life. His balls feel so fucking heavy.

Stensland starts rocking back and forth on his heels, keeping himself spread wide, his hole visibly clenching as he palms himself lazily. 

He’s so perfect, and so ready to get fucked that Clyde has to moan at the sight.

Clyde kneels between Stensland’s open legs, pointing the head of his cock against Stensland’s opening, teasing his hole with just the tip. It’s the barest of penetration but Stensland’s already panting for it, rolling his hips. His face is so expressive; he keeps scrunching up his nose and biting his lip.

“Do it.” Stensland grips Clyde’s left forearm. “Fuck me, come on, please, please. I’ve been wanting it since I came back here and saw you looking like that.”

“That long, huh?” Clyde says, chuckling, though what he wants to ask is _looking_ _like what_ , because the moment he saw Stensland again after all these years he wanted to lock himself in a room with a bottle of gin.

Stensland’s eyes are half-closed, but his face is so open and honest like this, so soft with emotion that something inside Clyde seizes up. He’s never felt this wave of tenderness for anyone before, not even Mellie whom he tries to look out for being his little sister and all. He’s always been a pretty loving guy but she’s just anything more than another person to love; she’s family. Then there’s Stensland’s who set the bar entirely. 

“You have no idea the things you do to me, Clyde Logan,” Stensland says, and Clyde would like to believe it even within the haze of arousal fogging up his common sense. “Now fuck me with your big fucking cock before I explode.” 

Clyde nods, bracing himself on the headboard. He pushes his hips forward just the tiniest increment and Stensland’s body resists upon impulse even after all that prep, tensing up. His hand presses flat against Clyde’s chest, stopping him.

“Wait, wait, wait a second.” Stensland puffs out his cheeks, breathing in deeply. 

Clyde leans down to kiss his forehead. “You okay?”

“Your dick,” Stensland explains with a huff, “It’s just— _so_ big _.”_ He flushes, and it’s an attractive color on him. “But I can take it. I have dildos as big as you are, I think I can do this if you go just a bit— _slower_.”

“We can go slow,” Clyde promises. “I’ll be real careful. Don’t wanna be hurtin’ you, Stensland.” 

“You won’t,” Stensland says, saying it with so much conviction Clyde almost believes him. “I know you. You won’t hurt me. It’ll be good.”

He has so much faith in him; no one’s ever believed in Clyde that much before.

So they go slow, Clyde thrusting in inch by throbbing inch, biting his tongue so he doesn’t blow his load too soon which would be the worst of all outcomes. It feels so good: the tight clutch of Stensland’s hole: like the world’s most perfect glove, gripping him snug and tight. 

When Clyde finally bottoms out, their foreheads pressed together and dripping with sweat, Clyde can feel his heart beating like a brass band inside his chest. He moves only at Stensland’s prompting, thrusting in little jerks until he hears a soft sigh escaping Stensland’s lips. His head lolls to the side.

“You like that?”

“Feels good,” Stensland smiles, and Clyde can imagine because he too feels fucking great. “Feels really good.”

“Yeah?”

Stensland moans, his body undulating like a wave. “I feel so— _so full._ Holy shit Clyde, you’re really big aren’t you. I can’t believe I—that we—” 

Stensland’s totally open now, no resistance, and they both glance down at the same time to watch Clyde fuck into him, deep and steady, his dick perfectly slotted and forcing Stensland’s hole open, to spread and stretch around the shape of him. 

Stensland seems even smaller than usual underneath him, his body hardly a dent against Clyde’s, but then Stensland hooks a leg around his hip, dragging him even deeper, skin to skin, and Clyde forgets everything, lets his lizard brain takeover.

He fucks Stensland hard and fast to the pounding of his pulse, and the bed groans underneath them, hitting the wall with every thrust. It’s loud and dirty and Stensland starts making these unholy noises Clyde has never heard before, like all he really wants is to be spread underneath Clyde and take his cock like a champ.

Clyde presses his cock back in after pulling out all the way, and then he slams back in again and again, widening his stance so he can fuck Stensland harder, deeper, just like he needs it. Clyde has fucked a good number of people before and no one has ever looked like that taking his dick. There’s no shame in it with Stensland, just sheer unbridled want: he loves getting fucked like this, keeping himself open for Clyde with his hands tucked under his knees.

Stensland hitches his leg up higher, slinging it over Clyde’s shoulder so Clyde can angle his thrusts and rub his prostate meaningfully. Stensland’s cock is a stiff curve against his stomach, flushed and hot with blood, the head beading trickles of precome. Stensland doesn’t touch it, like he doesn’t trust himself not to come, and Clyde doesn’t either because he wants to see Stensland fall apart from just this: getting pounded up the ass like it’s the only thing he wants in the world.

Clyde braces his hand on the headboard and surges against Stensland with one hard push, then another and another, and soon enough he’s fucking Stensland without any patience, without any finesse. 

“Clyde,” Stensland gasps, and Clyde groans from how wrecked his voice sounds, so completely fucked out. “Clyde, I’m about to—”

Stensland buries his face in Clyde’s shoulder when he comes, body spasming around Clyde’s dick as he spills between their chests and stomachs, wet and sticky and wailing loud enough to wake the entire street. He doesn’t stop shaking or whimpering. 

Clyde waits for him to settle down. 

There’s a pause of breath before Stensland’s fingers glide down the length of his back, urging him to continue, to fuck into him, and it doesn’t take long before Clyde’s spilling and grunting, burying himself so deep that he actually sees stars.

He makes a desperate, pathetic sound when he finishes and it makes him feel awkward and stupid, but Stensland just kisses him through it, reaching up and grabbing him, dragging him down, his arms clinging. 

It’s not like Clyde hasn’t imagined it from time to time, sex with Stensland. It never occurred to him that it would be like this, after years and years of pining for him as a lovestruck teenager and then as an embittered evasive adult: Stensland’s legs around his waist, his eyes smiling and sleepy, sweat blooming on his throat, his lips on Clyde’s cheek, soft. 

It’s better than even his dreams.

* * *

The smell of bacon wakes him up. Clyde rolls onto his back and rubs at his eyes. He’s alone in bed, and it takes him a few minutes to piece together the events of the night before. The sun is leaking in through the curtains, bright and hollering far too cheerfully considering the early hour. The room is messier than he’d like: Stensland’s clothes are strewn all over the floor, which means he hasn’t left yet. Good. Shocking but good. Clyde breathes a sigh of relief, so deep it’s almost painful. He picks up Stensland’s pajamas and his shirt and folds them neatly, before putting them on the bed. 

He fell asleep completely naked last night which hasn’t happened in a long time. They kissed until they fell asleep, holding each other like survivors on a life raft.  
  
Clyde puts on a t-shirt and a pair of boxers, slipping out into the hall and checking in on Stensland in the kitchen where he can hear the water running in the sink and finds him wearing an apron and nothing else. Somehow seeing his bare ass in broad daylight makes Clyde feel awkwardly shy, like he hasn’t spent the previous night giving it to him hard.

Stensland glances at him over his shoulder before turning off the tap, completely unselfconscious about his state of semi-nudity.

“Made you breakfast.” He gestures to the plate of bacon, eggs, and misshapen waffles on the counter. There’s coffee too but Stensland hasn’t brought out any mugs just yet. 

Clyde picks up a strip of bacon. It’s crisp, on the side of burnt. “Just how you like them,” Stensland says, pleased with himself.

“Yeah,” Clyde agrees, and he feels a tidal wave of emotion sweep over him. He tamps it down before it can overwhelm him because no bacon should be so good it can make a grown man cry.  
  
And then, rude as it might be, he addresses the elephant in the room: there are two actually but the first is easier to broach this early in the morning. “You’re not wearing any clothes.”

“I covered my privates if that’s what you’re worried about. I made sure nothing untoward was showing when I was making breakfast.” Stensland waves a hand.

It’s not that, Clyde thinks, staring, it’s _just_ —the apron leaves only so much to the imagination. It’s thin and practically see-through after too many trips to the washing machine. 

Clyde steals another strip of bacon so his mouth is preoccupied and he doesn’t ogle Stensland too openly. He’s seen him naked up close, so why is he being so modest all of a sudden? “So what time are you leavin’? he says.”

“Eager to get rid of me?” Stensland raises his eyebrows. “What is this, buyer’s remorse?”

“ _Stensland_ ,” Clyde says, frowning.

“Little bit after lunch.” Stensland shrugs, before crossing his arms, trying for a bright smile to lighten the mood. “We still have some time,” he says meaningfully. 

They do, in fact, still have some time and what better way to use it but to fuck on the sofa. This time, however, Stensland insists on sitting on Clyde’s dick. His arms loop around Clyde’s shoulders as he grinds down his lap, rubbing his dripping cock against Clyde’s chest. He’s still wearing the apron, his precome leaking through the cotton and streaking it in damp patches. 

If last night was filthy, then this time it’s just downright depraved. Clyde didn’t have any condoms left but Stensland insisted on doing it anyway, no protection, because, Clyde guesses, it was probably how city boys did it. 

It’s risky, sure, but neither of them has had any partners in a long while and Stensland swore up and down that he was clean, _always_ , that he was only doing this for the first time because it was Clyde and he trusted him.

“You sure about this Stens?”

“ _Please._ ” Stensland huffs. “You think I do this for everyone? You think I cook for anyone naked?”

Clyde doesn’t know. He’s thrilled to be the only one Stensland has done this for, breakfast, no protection, and what have you, he’s really just touched Stensland sees him as the exception. 

Stensland is perfect, his ass made to fit Clyde with how beautifully he takes Clyde’s dick. He doesn’t even falter in his rhythm, keeps rolling his hips up and down to chase the burn of the stretch, his head tipped back in bliss, his nipples hard and pink. Clyde’s never met anyone like him, who loves taking cock so much and to an almost embarrassing degree. But Stensland isn’t ashamed to make a mess, whining and trembling at every snap of Clyde’s hips, reaching behind himself to spread his ass cheeks around Clyde’s dick.

Clyde wraps his forearm against Stensland’s waist, his good hand reaching out to cup Stensland’s cheek, his fingers spanning his jaw. Stensland’s mouth is wet with breath and spit. Just as soon as Clyde touches it, Stensland’s tongue darts out to lick at the pad of his thumb. 

“You sure you still wanna go?” he asks, groaning when Stensland slides further down, tucking him into the very deepest seat of him, “You could just come live with me, Stensland, and we’d get to do this every single day. You sittin’ on my cock in the morning just like this after breakfast, then me fuckin’ you as soon as I come home. Right there at the door or on the floor or maybe in the kitchen, just gonna bend you over and shove my cock in and let you take it.”

“Shit,” Stensland whispers, “Shit, Clyde. _Fuck_. I want that.”

Clyde wants that too but with all the bells and whistles. Now that he’s gotten a taste of what it’s like to have Stensland like this, nothing will ever compare again. Because life is easy with him here but when he leaves. Well, when he leaves, it will be hard again.

“Remember,” Stensland says, his lips brushing up and down Clyde’s cheek in the approximation of a kiss. “When we were kids and I used to want to be a fisherman after I went on that trip?”

How can Clyde forget? He remembers most things about Stensland. He was the brightest star in his sky. “I dreamed— _fuck_ , I dreamed once that we’d be fishermen together. Married and living by the sea. Is that weird? Fuck, it’s weird. I know. I was a teenager. I don’t know why I’m bringing this up.”

Clyde stares at him. His eyes feel wet. He kisses Stensland, open-mouthed and trembling, and holds him in place, poised on his cock, unmoving. “I dreamed about that too,” he laughs, shaking his head. “I thought a lot about what the curtains in our house would look like. I was sorta crazy about you back then. I had it so bad. Shit, why’re you still in my head, Stens? Why can’t I stop thinkin’ about you even after all these years?”

“Maybe I’m just impossible to forget,” Stensland says, his eyes so green and kind.

“Maybe so,” Clyde agrees, and then he kisses Stensland because there’s nothing left to say. There’s something so glorious about kissing him here, just like this, with their bodies joined and moving in rhythm to their breathing, that Clyde would do anything just to have it again and again. 

“Please,” Stensland pants, and when his voice breaks, Clyde does too.

He comes with a deep groan against Stensland’s parted lips, which makes Stensland squirm in surprise as he’s filled with threads of Clyde’s come, Clyde spilling hot and fierce inside of him. Stensland looks so sweet, taking it all, and then even sweeter when he lies on his back on the sofa and lifts his knees so Clyde can lick it all up like cream. 

“I know it’s weird to say this but you licking my ass is the most intimate thing I’ve ever had done to me in my whole life.”

Clyde glances up from between Stensland’s legs. “I like doing it.”

“I like you doing it too,” Stensland says, rubbing his cock now eagerly, wriggling a little to get comfy on the cushions. A fat dollop of Clyde’s come leaks out of his hole, dripping down his thigh, and he curls his toes and bites his lip, closing his eyes.

“I don’t do this for anyone else,” Clyde says, touching his finger to Stensland’s rim, pushing come back in.

“Good,” Stensland breathes, arching his back when Clyde nuzzles his thigh. “That’s—that’s good to hear. Good.”

* * *

Clyde drives him back to his parents’ house. He had to eventually, even though he didn’t want to. What he wants to do is the exact opposite: keep Stensland forever. 

Stensland clips on his seatbelt and rolls down the window, yawning and tipping his face up to the early morning breeze. On the radio something from good old John Denver is playing. Clyde turns up the volume. It’s the first time he’s hearing it; it’s a good song, it’s got a catchy melody. The fact that the words are strangely fitting doesn’t go unnoticed either, and it makes Clyde chuckle, humming along.

“… _and it’s goodbye again, I’m sorry to be leavin’ you.._ ”

“So what’s the plan once you get back to Seattle?” Clyde asks, stopping at a red light and finally killing the silence.

Stensland shrugs, wrenching himself away from the window and slumping in his seat. He showered when they left the trailer, but dressed in the clothes he’d worn the night before. “There is no plan, really. Half the time, I don’t know what I’m doing. I’ll probably pay my roommate the money I owe him, if I scrounge up the fortune. And then after that: probably look for a better job.” 

“You can always come back, you know. Figure it out here.” _With me_ , Clyde doesn’t say because he’s not brave enough to say it. He doesn’t want to hope. 

Stensland looks at him, then swallows and starts cracking his knuckles nervously. If it’s not his mouth that’s distracting Clyde it’s his hands, and they draw Clyde’s notice like a true magnetic north. They’re long-fingered and delicate, not like his which are cracked with callouses from years in the army. “Can I tell you something? Promise not to freak out, okay?”

“I promise,” Clyde says, because what’s the worst Stensland could say to him? He’s already leaving again. Nothing could be worse than that.

“Everything that happened last night and this morning. The night of your birthday,” Stensland says, “On that goddamn trampoline. I wanted it, okay? I really wanted it. You. I really want you. So whatever happens after this, I just want you to remember that.”

“Stensland,” Clyde says, blinking at him. He has to keep his eyes on the road, as if shifting gears and driving with just one hand isn’t bad enough. “Stensland, you’re an idiot.”

“What?”

He pulls up on the side of the road, much to the dismay of the driver of the pickup truck behind him who honks their horn before calling him a very bad word.  
  
“I love you,” he says, and he doesn’t mean for it to come out crazed and desperate but there it is: he’s said the words. And it feels surreal; he’s kept it hidden for so long that now that it’s out in the open it feels finally real and tangible. Not a secret anymore but like a thing he’s made of: flesh and bones.

“I am. In love! With you! I have been for as long as I can remember and you showin’ your ass here after all these years hasn’t changed that one bit.”

“But I hurt you,” Stensland says.

“Doesn’t change anything,” Clyde tells him. Because Stensland can be selfish and stupid and self-absorbed, he can be shallow and ridiculous and absurd, anything he wants, but Clyde will still want him, all of him, in the end.

“Did I ever apologize for that?” Stensland asks. “For being a dick to you when we were kids?”

“Nope.” Clyde shakes his head. “Never.”

Stensland is quiet as he looks at him. Then he’s leaning over and hugging Clyde, tight. The angle is awkward but Clyde hugs him back, prosthetic arm and all, and it feels good, like a benediction, like standing on the edge of a cliff and being so close to plummeting. “Please consider this my belated apology,” Stensland says. 

“Teenagers do stupid things,” Clyde tells him.

“I’m no longer a teenager and I still do stupid things,” Stensland snorts, still hugging him, his words all choked up, half-sob, half rueful laugh.

“You should be a little less hard on yourself, Stens,” Clyde says, pulling back from the embrace to look at him. His eyes are wet in the corners. Clyde brushes a kiss over his eyelids, then another over his lips.  
  
He kissed Stensland that very first time in his dad’s old Thunderbird back when he was sixteen while it rained all around them, and it feels like a lifetime ago, that memory, blurred by the things that have happened since, both bad and good.

“Did you really mean it?” Stensland says, blinking his eyes open and rubbing their noses together, thumbing Clyde’s stubble thoughtfully.

“Which part?” Clyde asks.

“Not the love part, I know you mean it,” Stensland says. “But the part about me staying here till I figure stuff out. You said I could come back.”

Clyde kisses him again. This time when he pulls back, he gives Stensland a small smile. He’ll never be out of tenderness for him, he thinks. Stensland could leave now and come back again after another ten years and Clyde would still take him back. 

“‘Course I mean it, Stensland,” Clyde says. “You’re welcome here, always.”

Over the gear shift, Stensland’s hand slips into his.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The beginning.

* * *

Stensland is ten years old when the Logans move into the house next door. He’s on the front porch drinking lemonade his Papa made from the box, leafing through a book with big words and bright pictures that his dad said would help him expand his vocabulary. But he’s just eight years old and it’s the middle of July and books don’t interest him quite as much as Super Mario World. His Papa only lets him play video games in exchange for doing chores but Stensland hasn’t mowed the lawn since summer started and now the grass is uncomfortably scratchy against his bare feet. He swats at a passing bee, its plush body a low treble against the back of his hand.

Chores are currency in the Zimmermann-O’Malley household and Stensland uses them to barter for more time on the family computer, though his dad often lets him watch as much TV as he likes whenever his Papa is out of town. So far he’s done nothing to warrant any privileges so he’s just been reading all summer, helping his dad procure spare parts from the only auto shop in town for the car he’s building in the shed that he doesn’t want Stensland’s Papa to know about. 

Stensland watches as a moving truck noses up the driveway of what was once the Massey’s house. They’d been neighbours for years, an elderly couple whose children lived out of state, and he hadn’t even realized they had moved house until a man with the bushiest beard Stensland had ever seen took the “For Sale” sign planted on the front lawn and tucked it under his arm.

Some men in uniform start unloading furniture from the back of the truck, everything covered in bubble wrap and butcher paper. There’s so much stuff that Stensland eventually loses count: cabinets and chairs, a whole living room set, and a massive television, bigger than what Stensland’s family could afford. He’s wondering how it’ll all fit inside the house when his Papa calls him inside for lunch. 

Stensland picks up his book and tells his Papa he’ll be right inside. He flicks an ant off his arm and slips into his shoes because his Papa doesn’t like him getting his dirty feet on the newly scrubbed linoleum.

They have fish fingers with chips and mushy peas. After lunch, Stensland’s parents take him to the supermarket where they let him buy all his favourite snacks on the condition that he’ll start eating all his vegetables. Stensland crosses his fingers behind his back and promises to do so and his dad pats him on the head and lets him wreak havoc on the cereal aisle. He’s almost forgotten about the new neighbours when they get home from the supermarket later in the afternoon and he sees that the neighbour’s porch lights are on. 

Their trash can has been pulled out on the street, already overflowing with stuff. For a brief moment, Stensland wonders if the new neighbours have kids. Stensland’s best and only friend Caleb had moved schools two summers ago, after his dad got a job offer in California. They made promises to write to each other but the letters never materialized. Stensland has more or less moved on from the heartbreak but he sometimes wishes he had someone his age to play with. It got boring after a while, playing with his parents. They were adults, and neither of them truly understood why Super Mario World was the best game invented, ever.

Stensland spends all of dinner wondering about the new neighbours. After his chores, he kneels on the bed and opens his window and listens closely for any telltale sounds coming from next door. It’s 8PM and he should be asleep but he’s too full to fall into bed right away. So he sits up on his knees and listens because really, what else is there to do when you live in a small town west of Virginia?

Unfortunately, he gets nothing: just the chirp of crickets and the song of evening birds and the muted noise of the TV from the living room downstairs, where he caught his parents cuddling on his way to the kitchen for a glass of water. He goes to bed disappointed.

The next day, Stensland tells himself he doesn’t care anymore and finally helps his dad with some yard work. He puts on a pair of gloves and starts the arduous task of pulling out weeds while his dad tries and fails to start the lawn mower.

They drink lemonade on the front porch and soon enough it’s time for lunch. Stensland’s Papa doesn’t cook very often but after Stensland’s bubbe lent him her recipe book, Papa can’t seem to stop cooking. There are all sorts of dishes in the fridge, packed away in tupperware or covered in clingfilm, heavy with spice and other exotic odours. His dad says suburbia has made Stensland’s Papa crazy, whatever that means; Papa says he’s not made for suburbia. Stensland will have to look that word up in the dictionary because it seems like an adult thing and therefore important. 

Papa makes chocolate babka using a recipe from bubbe’s recipe book. The house smells heavenly afterwards and Stensland’s mouth waters as he kneels in front of the oven, waiting for the dough to rise.

“It’s to give to the neighbours,” Papa explains a full three hours later, stepping back to admire his handiwork. Stensland and the kitchen counter are covered in flour, but so is his Papa. There’s a streak of it running across his nose like war paint.

“Why do we have to give babka to the neighbours?” Stensland whines for the fifth time as he’s putting on some shoes and his Papa pats his hair into submission. Then his Papa sighs and shakes his head, giving his hair one final pat. 

“Because it’s the polite thing to do,” Papa tells him patiently. “And because your dad wants us to make good with the new neighbours. The Masseys didn’t like me very much but I didn’t like them very much either. Now we get to start anew. Here’s to hoping they aren’t narrow-minded snobs like our last neighbours, eh?” 

Stensland just stares at him. Once he’s sorted and dressed, Papa marches him out the front door.

Papa rings the doorbell, a wide, strange smile plastered on his face that Stensland only ever sees when his dad’s boss comes around for dinner. 

The door opens after half a minute. It’s the man from yesterday with the great bushy beard and he’s carrying his sleeping daughter in one arm; she looks about two years old, fine brown hair wrapped in pale blue ribbon. 

Stensland peers behind the man and sees the mess of the living room: boxes and boxes of stuff littering every corner and two boys only a few years older than him, wrestling each other for a turn on the Super Nintendo.

His Papa and the man make small talk and Stensland tunes them out. He’s good at that. Adult talk bores him.

“You guys should come in,” the man says, startling Stensland with his deep, booming voice. He looks up, and his Papa is grinning, his posture seemingly at ease. 

“Mel! Honey, come meet the neighbors!”

The man ushers them into the kitchen which is bigger than their kitchen: everything is new, shiny and gleaming, though the table is laden with all sorts of stuff they’ve probably just unpacked. There’s a sliding door leading to the backyard and Stensland can spy a swimming pool. He looks at his Papa with wide-eyed surprise. Papa huffs, his expression echoing the sentiment.

The Logans have an accent, because the only ones in Stensland’s neighborhood who have yet to adopt the West Virginian twang, are his Papa and Stensland himself who cling valiantly to their roots. Papa still swears in his native tongue and makes phone calls in Gaelic when he doesn’t want Stensland’s dad to be privy to his conversations. 

Mr Logan introduces them to his wife who wears her hair up in a big bob like in those black and white TV shows Stensland’s dad loves so much. She’s big; her wrists are ribbed with colorful jangling bracelets; she smells like hairspray. 

Then there are the Logan boys who Mr Logan summons to the kitchen with a whistle, like they were part of a military troop. They come scrambling in not a minute later, pushing and elbowing each other, wearing oversized t-shirts and cargo shorts, completely barefoot.

“Now boys,” Mr Logan announces, “I’d like you to meet Mr O’Malley here and his son Stensland. They were kind enough to bring us some cake. What did you say this one was called again—”

“Babka,” Papa says.

“Right,” Mr Logan nods. “Let’s thank Mr. O’Malley for the babka.”

“Thank you Mr. O’Malley,” say the Logan boys, out of sync. “For the _babka_ ,” one of them says, before elbowing his brother in the ribs. His name is Jimmy, and he’s blue-eyed just like his dad, tall and big-boned. He’s in middle school, his dad says with a sliver of pride in his voice as he pats Jimmy on the shoulder. Jimmy likes to play football; he’s hoping to make it to the big leagues.

And then there is the other Logan boy, Clyde: lanky with big ears and the most awful haircut Stensland has ever seen in his life; just turned eleven. 

“Hello,” says Clyde. 

Stensland can already tell when Clyde asks him what his favourite books are that they’re going to be friends.


End file.
